The Master is the Student

Who learns more, the master or the student? Note that the question is not past tense – who has learned more – it is present tense. A good student is always learning. The best masters are perpetual students.

Photo Credit: Mutt Love Photography

There is a famous quote that has been spoken many times and in many ways: “You’re either growing or dying.” This quote is most commonly attributed to Lou Holtz, but I have heard it requoted by others, many times. Ray Kroc, the businessman who turned McDonald’s into a franchise, said something similar: “You’re either green and growing or ripe and rotting.” These quotes have stuck in my head for many years, as there is so much truth behind them. When we stop learning, we don’t just stay where we are at, we go backwards. Especially as the world continues to grow and change around us, if we don’t attempt to keep up.

All the horsemen whom we consider masters of their trade, are continuously learning. From each other, from horses, and from their students. Every single horse will teach you something new, and if you think you know it all, you’ll meet a horse that humbles you. Just when you feel like you have encountered every type of personality imaginable, you’ll meet a horse that doesn’t fit in any of the boxes you’ve unpacked to date. In the horse world, no one great ever stops learning.

When I was a teenager, I thought I knew everything. I grew up in the middle of nowhere, and riding lessons were a rare treat; most of the time I was on my own. I had two neighbours that were horsewomen who helped me get my start in the horse world. The first convinced my parents to buy us a pony (my siblings were far less interested in horses than I, so I considered him “mine”).  The second found my Arab at an auction 4 ½ years later, whom I purchased from her with my savings from Christmases and birthdays for $535.

I owned a handful of horse books and studied them religiously. Then I would go out and try what the books suggested myself. I practiced everything I read in my favourite books on my pony, my horse, and any other equines I could get my hands on.

I watched The Black Stallion and taught myself how to vault on like Alec. My poor pony got kicked in the ribs a lot as I perfected this skill (fortunately I was a tiny nine-year-old and it was more of an irritation to him than harmful). With many years of practice, I eventually perfected this skill, thanks to his patience.

Then I saw Zorro and decided to learn to jump onto my pony and Arab by running up behind them and leapfrogging on over their rumps, like Zorro did in a chase scene. I slammed gut-first into their tails most of the time, but occasionally I would clear their docks and make it on.

Once my prefrontal cortex developed, I not only became very grateful I survived my childhood and the senseless things I did with my horses; I also became increasingly grateful for their tolerance of me and all my crazy ideas. Had my parents been horse people, I would not have gotten away with all the wild things I attempted. But they were not, and I kept most of my mishaps to myself so that they would remain unaware. The last thing I wanted was to be censored. As a result, I did many foolish things that no horse savvy parent would have allowed.

Even before I hit my teens, I was convinced that I was a master horse trainer. Prior to my purchasing my Arab, we had taken on companion horses for my pony. One of them was a yearling Peruvian Paso colt, whom I decided to train. I have vague recollections of preparing him for saddling with the only “saddle pad” I had: a small area rug from Ikea. Those vague recollections include fuzzy memories of him not being particularly participative in my plans, but eventually I did get him to the point where I could put the rug on his back.

I studied pictures in books of horses that were “on the bit” and thought, I can do that no problem. I taught my Arab to tuck her nose in when I jiggled the reins, and I remember being gleeful at this accomplishment. It was so easy! I couldn’t believe the books made it sound so hard to ride a horse “through” or “round” or “connected”; clearly, I had a gift for training.

I rode my high horse for years, until I wound up taking lessons near Sherwood Park at age nineteen. I probably tooted my own horn when I told my new instructor, Elizabeth, my skill level prior to our first lesson, as I remember her saying “I’ll put you on Beau; he is very well trained and will show what you know.” She said it kindly, without ego. Despite her unassuming tone, I had a brief wave of insecurity pass over me, as these words implied that I might not know as much as I thought. But that was quickly replaced by my self-assurance reminding me that I had taught my Arab to go on the bit in record time, so of course I’d be able to get this well-trained horse to.

A large Warmblood gelding, Beau was a complete schoolmaster, and as schoolmasters have a way of doing, quite promptly brought me down many pegs. He did indeed have a great deal of training – he belonged to my next coach, Tanya, and was trained very correctly. Not only could I not get him on the bit, he was difficult for me to even keep going. I was faced with a harsh truth: I didn’t know as much as I thought I did.

Thus began my re-entry into the consciously incompetent* student phase of my journey toward mastery: although I was always learning, prior to that point, I considered myself to be extremely knowledgeable. I thought I was a master. Beau and Elizabeth made me realize I not only didn’t know as much as I had previously thought, I also didn’t know what I didn’t know.

I spent the next year riding with Elizabeth, then six more riding with Tanya until she devastatingly passed away at a young age. I threw myself into becoming a student. I volunteered at summer camps, catch rode all the horses in Tanya’s program, and eventually took on a part time teaching position at the stable under Tanya’s mentorship. I was determined to learn all of the things I previously thought I knew, and more. The more I learned, the more I realized how little I knew. That made me determined to keep learning even more.

As the years passed, and my skill level increased, my self-assurance decreased. There were days, twenty or thirty years in, where I questioned whether I should even be riding and training horses, because I still had so much to learn. Each time I started over with a new horse, I wished I had had the same knowledge with the previous horse. I could have done things so much better, if I had known then what I knew now.

How do we look after our horses’ best interests, once we come to the realization that we have so much left to learn? When we feel overwhelmed by how much we don’t know, and wonder if we are doing them justice? The answer to that lies in our openness to self-reflection and evolution. When we recognize that true mastery is committing to being a perpetual student. To never stop discovering, learning, growing, and evolving into better riders and trainers.

I have owned horses now for over 35 years, and I feel less assured of my knowledge now than I did as a kid and teen. Although I know far more now than I did then, the difference is now I am aware of how much more I have yet to learn. Now I recognize that I don’t know what I don’t know. Back then, I thought I was a master. Now I know I am still a student.