“Master,” exclaimed the disciple. “How does one become wise?” The question echoed off the temple walls and faded below the sound of the bubbling brook just outside.  “By making good decisions, Grasshopper,” came the considered reply from the teacher. “Oh!  Of course, yes, making good decisions,” the youngster pondered.  Silenced ensued.  Moments later… “But how does one make good decisions?” This time the teacher did not hesitate.  “Through experience,” he responded.  “Hmm,” Grasshopper mused to himself. The disciple shifted in place.  Brow furrowed in humility, he finally asked his teacher, “But master, how does one get experience?”  The teacher smiled. After allowing a moment for reflection, he said, “By making bad decisions.” 

Have you ever had an experience that has led you to feel stupid, but actually it might be your path to wisdom?  Here are a few of mine:

Bad Decision: Last week, I successfully resolved some long standing power issues with the electric fence.  It was five by five on the fence tester when I was done.  Straddling the live wire to get to a neighboring paddock, I learned too late that denim is not a good insulator.  I screamed like a little girl and scared the horses.  “Ah,” I thought to myself later.  “Wisdom!?”

According to my brother, in our family, you are either a “clubber,” or a “bumpkin,” the latter being pronounced “bunk-kin.”  This was never more evident than when we lived in Champaign, Illinois, home of the state university.  U of I has a world famous engineering school, but also boasted about having a cow with a screw-top window installed into its stomach.  You could see the chewed-up grass… and smell it too.  I was horrifically intrigued, even at age 8, not yet having declared my allegiance to either clubberism or bumpkinism. 

My mother’s parents were clubbers; members of the country club set.  My father grew up in a more rural neighborhood called Wyoming.  To her credit, my mom’s mother, Gamommy, actively searched for common ground between the two cultures.  She felt sure that equestrian arts was the perfect blend of these two worlds and signed us up for riding lessons each week in lieu of golf or tennis, both of which eluded me. 

Badger: 15.3 hand high pedigreed quarter horse.  The spiritual leader of the Larsen herd and the eldest, his world revolves around Willow the mare, whom he adores. 

Tai: 15.2 hand high black and white pinto gelding. Early 20s, dressage washout, enjoys trail riding back to the barn most.  He has been my best horse-friend and teacher for nearly a decade and a half. 

“I used to be quite fearless when I was young.  I’d ride my pony anywhere at any speed,” Nancy said to me as we stood by the fence.  “Now I get scared when things get faster.  I haven’t cantered a horse in years,” she continued.  “I guess that’s just the way it is when you get older.  You learn that you are breakable.” 

“I think there’s a little more to it,” I said, hoping that I knew her well enough to be candid.  What I was about to say could easily be misconstrued.  “I think when you become a mother; something changes in your body that has to do with survival.”  Now you are responsible for someone besides just you.  I think it’s different for fathers and I don’t think it’s sexist.  I think it’s just how we are wired.”  “I suppose,” Nancy said, not convinced. 

“Compassion is the awareness of the deep bond between yourself and all creatures.” 

In recent weeks, I found myself debating how to best declare war on a chipmunk that had begun to chew into the top of the GRAIN bin.  Various approaches were considered, ranging from scare tactics, to chipmunk relocation via catch and release, to armoring all feed containers.  I even thought about pressing our now retired barn cat back into temporary assignment. This was the cat who declared two years ago, “Finally you understand that it’s not my job to burrow into hay to stay warm.  My place is in the home… on the divan… near the hearth… as a lavishly fat - decorator cat!” 

A few years ago, on a business trip to Colorado, my friend LuAnne invited me to come up to her family farm and spend some time horsing.  She let me ride one of her mares, whom she described as responsive, but grumpy.   She said the mare had never bucked, spun, kicked, or reared under saddle, but any time something was asked of her through reins, legs, or otherwise, she would pin her ears and tighten up.  The mare would do as asked, but with the demeanor of a toll booth attendant when you pay the fee in pennies. 

I proceeded cautiously, moving the horse here and there from the ground, ostensibly to see how moveable she was, but in truth, I was nervous. LuAnne commented favorably on how much time I spent with the horse on the ground before swinging a leg over. She was impressed.  I did not fess up to my trepidation.  I mounted up.  Sure enough, the act of settling in the saddle earned me a sour look from this little mare.  The expression was punctuated with mare’s ears; those laid back to the head, “you better not even think about it or I’ll tear your face off,”  ears that allow any mare to chase any stallion off the couch on Sunday afternoon when stuff needs done around the homestead. 

A few weeks ago, a dear friend and I loaded up two horses and headed for Chipaway Stables in Acushnet, Massachusetts.  We were participating in something called a team penning.  The object is for three horses and riders to work together to sort out three specific head of cattle from a herd of thirty and move them into a holding area.  This was a practice session where novices were encouraged, invited, and expected. 

My friend Laurie was a seasoned participant.  I was green and hoped that my horse would be able to fill in for me where I lacked experience.  You see, according to his papers, Badger the horse came from a long line of pedigreed cow horses and word on the street was that he had cow experience.  I was also encouraged because two different animal communicators had told me, without prompting, that Badger liked cows.  One even said, “He thinks they’re funny.”  So with the confidence borne of ignorance, I packed up horse, halter, saddle, bridle, and lunch for both Badger and me, and we headed south. 

I am in the process, along with Megan of Sleepy Hollow farm (in North Dartmouth) and Darlene from Black Feather Horse Rescue (in Plymouth), to take on a rescue of babies whose mothers are used to nurse other horses’ babies, wrote animal communicator Kendra Bond in an email to friends and potential compassionate lurkers.  The email was forwarded to me by my friend, Diane, the owner of Natural Body Works in Kingston.  I was both intrigued and troubled.