The Power of the Herd (58 page)

In approaching Rasa, it took Barbara several sessions to master the optimal timing of seeing signs of tension and immediately employing the “rock back and sigh” technique. At first, she would walk right up to the mare, not noticing that Rasa had raised her neck higher and had even started moving away ten feet earlier. Then, when Barbara began to discern these nonverbal cues, she would simply stop and hold her breath. When asked to rock back, she would stiffly lean back and forget to breathe. Sitting in a judge's chair for ten years had solidified the unconscious impression that she didn't have to move, breathe, or relate responsively to others in wielding significant power.

“It's not necessary to have real power when you're a judge,” Barbara marveled the day she was finally able to direct Rasa to walk, trot, and canter around the arena. “I don't know what to call it, actually — borrowed power, fake power,
empty power. I mean just about anyone off the street could put on those robes and experience instant respect walking through the courthouse. They'd have to know the law, or the charade would soon be up, of course. But all I know is that when the robe comes off, and people don't know who you are, that kind of power is about as useful in everyday life as trying to eat a photo of someone else's four-course meal!”

During her last session with me, Barbara was pleased to report that she had used the assertiveness-motivation formula to get her son to clean his room regularly. “I couldn't think of any reason a boy his age would be committed to cleaning his room,” she said. “I actually thought about bribing him, letting him accept Henry's gift of the SUV. But I'm still on the fence about that. Why should I compromise Michael's safety over household chores?”

After working with the horses, Barbara realized she had enough personal-commitment resources as mother and homeowner to motivate Michael — by means of the “crescendo into immediate positive feedback” protocol — to take care of this tedious chore. At first, she texted him to remind him that he'd agreed to clean his room Thursday after school (this was a one on the power dial), then called him on her way home from work (a two). That night, when it was clear that he hadn't lifted a finger to clean his room, she firmly yet calmly spoke to him after dinner (a three or four). When Michael “forgot” on Friday, she grounded him that weekend (a five in her mind, as she was also willing to take away his cell phone and his spring-break trip if necessary).

“Michael was really giving me the silent treatment on Saturday, but I didn't take the bait,” she proudly told me. “I actually went into his room and got him started, as I could see he was overwhelmed with the total lack of organization. It was really disgusting. I helped him gather his laundry, but I had him measure out the detergent and set the dials. I guess this was a helpful way to take the motivation up to a six. And I was giving him immediate positive feedback in the process, just talking with him in a matter-of-fact way, rather than giving him the stern, silent, resentful treatment I would normally use — I'm now embarrassed to say — when he tested my authority. And when he finished later that afternoon, I announced that he was no longer grounded, as he had achieved the goal. He actually looked shocked. I've had a much easier time motivating him at a two, three, or four on the power scale ever since!”

Barbara was even more excited that day when I allowed her to go into the arena with my stallion Merlin. The judge was nervous, but she successfully
set boundaries with Merlin, seeing that he needed the space to avoid becoming overstimulated. And she was able to convince him to move around the arena once in each direction using the motivation formula, though she found it hard to control his speed. We talked afterward about Merlin's need to learn self-control, to learn how to modulate his own power if he were ever truly to be “healed” from the unnecessarily violent treatment he had received in earlier training.

Tears welled up in Barbara's eyes. “I've made a decision,” she said. “I'm going to support Michael in driving the Expedition. I'm going to help him to understand that Henry's SUV is a symbol of power, not power itself. I'm going to let both of them know that taking additional defensive-driving training, and maybe even a personal self-defense class, will be my condition for letting Michael officially own the vehicle after he receives his driver's license. And I'm going to make sure he knows that showing me he can responsibly handle himself in situations when I'm not around will allow him to keep it over time.”

W
hen I first began working with horses
to teach human-development skills, I noticed a particular kind of fear overtaking people who were suddenly confronted with feelings, insights, and even gifts they'd hidden for years. Some would actually panic when a horse showed them that they were more powerful, or deserved more affection and respect, than they had previously imagined. They felt raw and exposed, “like an egg, cracked out of its shell and left quivering on the sidewalk,” as one woman put it. This psychological vulnerability had nothing to do with physical danger or memories of previous traumas. Even so, these people initially wanted to run as far away as possible from this new information or to fight it tooth and nail.

It's hard for human beings to acknowledge personal limitations, skill deficiencies, and unproductive behavior. That we understand. But fearful reactions to empowering experiences? As it turns out, the root cause is similar — though it took me years to figure out what to do about it.

Just as I was beginning to develop strategies for handling this perplexing and surprisingly common issue, “Karen,” a Maryland-based lobbyist, inquired about horse-facilitated work for her daughter, “Jenna,” who seemed apathetic (“lost,” as her mother put it) during her freshman year of college. Despite graduating near the top of her high school class, Jenna showed little enthusiasm for her university courses. She didn't know what she wanted to major in, nor did she make much effort to socialize. And while she certainly wasn't failing, her grades were less than stellar, despite the fact that she didn't go out much.

In speaking with her mother to arrange a series of sessions, I learned that
Jenna's entire family was concerned — protective, actually. Karen insisted that nothing unusual had happened to her daughter. As the baby of the family, Jenna had been coddled by three older brothers. Both parents held fulfilling, high-paying jobs in the Washington, D.C., area and seemed to balance career and family life well.

“I just don't understand it,” Karen said. “Jenna doesn't have to worry about anything financial right now, and we absolutely support her in whatever career path she chooses. All she has to do is enjoy life, which she did up until the day she left for college. I don't know what's gotten into her!”

Jenna refused counseling, insisting she was “fine.” But she was open to a two-day intensive course with the horses as part of the family's spring-break trip visiting relatives near Tucson. Karen told Jenna they were coming to Eponaquest for a “mother-daughter weekend” to learn some feminine-empowerment and leadership skills.

I truly had no idea what to expect. Was Jenna hiding something — childhood sexual abuse or college date-rape perhaps? Or was the family overfunctioning for her? Based on Karen's concern — and her insistence that Jenna's childhood had been idyllic — I made sure I had a therapist on call in case the work revealed trauma that Karen knew nothing about. At the same time, I proceeded to teach the women a variety of mind-body-awareness, boundary-setting, and assertiveness skills that fit their chosen theme.

Our first session didn't provide many clues. A bit shy with me, Jenna was visibly intrigued by the horses, who took an instant liking to her. She smiled when she talked about her father and brothers and seemed to get along well with her mother. As we mixed discussions about the Emotional Message Chart with gentle grooming and leading activities, I could see that Karen was impressed with Jenna's ease, interest, and confidence. Both women seemed to enjoy themselves immensely.

On day two, Jenna far outshone her mother in setting boundaries with these massive animals. Then it came time to use the assertiveness-motivation formula by moving a horse at a walk, trot, and canter off lead in the round pen. Once again, Jenna proved to be the star. While Karen had significant trouble getting my gentlest mare to trot and change direction on cue, Jenna succeeded in directing a more challenging horse almost effortlessly.

You could have knocked her mother over with a feather. Karen and I couldn't help gushing when Jenna walked out of the arena. Yet as we commented on her poise, grace, and power, Jenna began to shake slightly.

“What's wrong, honey?” Karen asked, touching her daughter's shoulder, whereupon Jenna shrank back, her eyes darting back and forth. I motioned for
her visibly concerned mother to give Jenna some space and began breathing deeply for all three of us.

Jenna seemed slightly relieved when Karen moved away. Having seen similar reactions to positive experiences in the past, I calmly asked the young woman if she needed a break. “I just want to get out of here,” she managed to say, as if she were planning to turn tail and run, past the rental car, right on down the road.

“Walk with me,” I said. “I want you to meet some of our younger herd members.” Karen told us to go on ahead as she pulled a cell phone out of her pocket, ostensibly to check in with the rest of the family about dinner plans. On the way over to see Rasa and Merlin's two sons, Spirit and Indigo Moon, I proceeded to tell the still nervous young woman about a former show horse named Mocha.

A few years earlier, when we moved our operations to Apache Springs Ranch, I was thrilled at the opportunity and the sheer beauty of this historic property. And I was continually surprised by the fearful reactions certain people had to this expansive, idyllic setting. Some were unnerved by how isolated it was, how much property there was to manage, and how much we had to improvise to create a retreat center based on the newly forming field of equine-facilitated human development.

I had been touring the United States and Canada for several years, doing workshops in a wide variety of settings, gathering ideas on how different horse operations, spas, guest ranches, and conference centers operated. But I couldn't find any specific models for combining these elements. While I was game to take considerable risks to build this new idea from the ground up, I completely, naively underestimated how scary this would be for others.

While the workshops themselves steadily improved in quality and content, inspiring clients and facilitators alike, managing the staff 's varied, often unexpected reactions to behind-the-scenes challenges sapped my energy. It was already difficult for me to juggle writing my third book, leading extended workshops, developing multidisciplinary programs, and collaborating with an out-of-state business partner who was helping to fund the ranch and business. So many details required my direct input. For the first two years, we worked around construction of the conference center and some additional residences. But things didn't slow down when the buildings were finished. At that point, we hired a national press agent to officially launch the center, and my workload increased. I was spending an additional ten hours per week that I didn't have
helping her strategize, write press releases, and develop marketing materials, as no one really knew how to describe the work we were doing or why horses were so effective in teaching human-development skills.

I was already exhausted by that time — for another unexpected reason: for a good three years after we moved to Apache Springs in 2005, I found myself skipping breaks, working on supposed days off, and staying up late into the night moderating interpersonal difficulties among staff members, many of whom I'd hired because they knew more about their jobs than I did.

Some of these people had run their own horse-training, marketing, or counseling-related businesses, but this, I quickly realized, didn't mean they knew how to share leadership and handle differences effectively. While every staff member had gifts I valued, moments of sheer brilliance even, I was stunned at the ways they would sometimes lash out or silently undermine each other. Some would hold grudges indefinitely, making it difficult for anyone to apologize, change his or her behavior, and move forward. A few people would pick a staff member to demonize, creating factions that became increasingly hard for me to negotiate. This despite the fact that they were all devoted to the idea of moving beyond the old self-involved, power-over models of social organization.

People wanted to collaborate, but they also wanted me to pull rank, in their favor, of course, when conflicts ensued. I wanted to delegate responsibility, but I also had to notice how people interpreted our evolving vision and priorities in different ways. I had to rein in creative staff members and reprioritize their ideas before they spent our modest budget on unproductive, or simply ill-timed, projects. All the while, the sheer size of the ranch led some staff and clients to believe that we had endless funds, which inspired episodes of envy, jealousy, and resentment, then disillusionment when I conveyed that we were barely scraping by and had to keep salaries and new projects in check.

I didn't know how to handle many of the interpersonal difficulties and power plays that arose — at least not at first. And I most certainly had trouble figuring out my own role in this new paradigm. My husband and I had gathered our savings together, splitting the financial risk with a California-based entrepreneur who owned a mortgage company, a winery, and some other intriguing interests outside the country. Still, our budget didn't allow much room for experimentation or error. Our personal funds were limited, and our partner kept finding ways to keep us from bringing in additional investors, though this was a part of the original business plan. As a result of this and other start-up challenges, I offered staff a reasonable base salary with bonuses for the additional clients and income they were encouraged to bring in. But several months into this project, I was surprised to find that a couple of staff members were
looking for ways to take business away from the ranch, failing to notice that this put their own jobs and salaries in jeopardy.