There is a lightness attainable with a horse that has nothing to do with him coming off a light pressure. “A light horse,” a trainer might say, “is one who responds to the lightest cues.”
I would disagree. A light horse, I would say, is one who never looks for pressure—and to whom you never give it.
Maia wildly resists pressure, real or anticipated. If she’s trotting on the lunge and expects to hit the end of the lunge, she instantly starts slinging and throwing her head in anxiety. If the pressure is something she cannot escape, such as my pressing on the bridge of her nose to get a step back, her ears tilt back, eyes go dead, and I may not even regain her spirit in that session; she shuts down.
You can feel when a horse is not truly light: you don’t feel you can lunge him at the canter with your lead simply looped over your pinky finger; you could not ask for a halt-gallop depart without squeezing your legs (and it might not even come with a big kick!); if you were to let your horse gallop in an open field at liberty, you couldn’t just watch with a leg cocked and a smile and know he was going to boomerang back to you.
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| Do you sense the lightness in this picture of Caspian and me? I put out no effort or pressure and everything happens. |
What is one step toward attaining this lightness? With Maia, it is first clearing my mind of any inclination to match pressure with pressure. If she bolts when I’m on her, will I match that with pressure and pull on the reins? Or will my mind stay clear and find joy in the gallop?
And after my mind is in a light, non-pressure state, my hands follow. When your horse appears he is going to pull on the lunge, have you ever tried releasing, loosening, the rope to him instead? I know what changes in Maia when that happens; but what happens to your horse?
Sometimes the greatest changes occur when we do not apply effort, as we understand effort.