It’s a rainy day as I write this. A rainy day in New Mexico is generally cause for celebration. The state squeaks out 13.85 inches average rainfall per year.
So it’s a good time for me to put into words that which I’ve sat on for several months. I have slowed down with writing blogs, but I just stopped in my tracks when my mare Zuzka passed away suddenly and unexpectedly from colic in March of this year. I was able to summon up her eulogy (see below) and some poems emerged but nothing more.
Loss brings life into sharp relief. I feared the day I would lose her but I had thought I’d have many more years to be with her, to feel her solid presence, receive her counsel. I didn’t rebound from this well. Daily, while I miss her terribly, I must remind myself I didn’t “lose” her, she simply moved to the other side of the veil.
I get glimpses of her, she appears in swaths of black fur, an ever-knowing horse, a horse that guided me with very specific horse knowledge. She is the horse that brought me to learn bodywork, and to a more equitable way of being with horses. She understood the importance of a herd like wild horses know it. She knew what each member of the herd needed.
Zuzka was extremely vocal about what she wanted. As she aged, she became more adamant about her preferences. When I would bring out the clippers to clip her very long, thick Cushings fur, she would wait patiently as I plugged in the extension cord and stand quietly while I clipped her, until the clippers got overheated. It took us three or four days to fully clip her with the small clippers I had. This was pleasurable time spent together, getting the excess hair off, standing absolutely still for the hour or so each session, until we got it done. Some of my fondest memories of her, besides the hours of trails, camping, traveling and clinics we did together, are of standing in a sea of black with her as the clippers made deep tracks in her luxurious fur. The crows thought it was wildly exciting as they cawed and flew around with tufts of her fur clamped in their beaks.
I was launched into learning equine bodywork, and literally, “launched” by Zuzka who, as a youngster, bucked furiously when I tried to mount her. It turned out she held great tension in her girth area. And oh yes, we went to a trainer, who taught her not to respond that way, but she was still often agitated. Once I learned to do a little massage around that area before getting on, she stopped bucking and let me on.
It was my first lesson in listening. It was a win-win. Her ability to take care of me, to take care of the other horses, was phenomenal. I knew that she knew things, things that I couldn’t know because I didn’t inhabit a horse body and live outside all day long. She knew that movement was vital to the horses who were in pain and didn’t want to move. She knew small children and injured people needed a horse to stand over them as protection. She communicated with the crows and knew about the order of things. When I say she was my counsel, I mean it. Her advice made perfect sense.
If Zuzka could speak in so many words, she would say this to me:
“You would be wise to listen to the wisdom of a tree:
Live your life with your own personal majesty.
Let the roots of all your dreams grow deep.
Let the hopes of all your tomorrows grow high.
Bend, but don’t break.
Take the seasons as they come. Stick up for yourself.
And reach for the sky.”
I’m not an animal communicator, but I’m working on the craft of listening and observing, because of her and the horses who have come after her.
There was so much I didn’t know and didn’t always listen. My mind and heart were not open to the experience. I expect most people who own horses are this way. It’s why I only have a couple of students who want to learn the listening work all the way through to saddle work.
And so I say I don’t teach riding lessons. I refer riding lessons to other very skilled people I know.
But if a person wants to come and sit, to feel a horse’s breath on them, to hear a horse’s language, however it reveals itself, and then at a time that seems right, invite the horse into an activity: walking together, lying down together, dancing, help a horse or human overcome some fears, then possibly riding, then that is what I can offer.
Among other things, I am lucky in that I can teach with a herd. The other day as I was working with my herd and a student, I saw how one horse moved to block and instruct another horse to stand still for the halter. Very subtle. I say that my class with my horses is 50 percent herd-taught. It can be done with any herd. But it’s not going to happen with horses kept separately who don’t get to share each others’ daily rhythms and include people in their extended herd.
If the horse needs a little bodywork and that wasn’t on our agenda, then maybe the person will learn that. In so doing, the horse recognizes the person’s interest in learning about the body, about making a significant change. When horses know you know how to do something that’s valuable to them, they will ask for it.
Zuzka would want me to tell you to listen carefully to your elder horses. They are wise beyond years. Sometimes, with the younger horses taking up so much time, elder horses don’t get enough of our time. Make the time. They won’t be around forever. They love the conversation, the grooming, the small games, primarily just sharing with you. Their slowing down teaches us to slow down, and breathe. Get out of our doing heads to sink Into being. This also demonstrates to the young ones that they will be treasured for as long as you have any say in the matter.
We may be able to receive messages from our beloved departeds, but we won’t be able to stroke their fur, feel the warmth of them, share breath with them, quite the same way as we did while they are next to us, here on earth.
Eulogy for Zuzka
April 24, 1992 – March 12, 2018
Yesterday we buried my beautiful black Arabian Mare, Zuzka, just shy of her 26th birthday. I have been blessed with knowing and owning some amazing horses, and this one is exceptional. I can’t even think of her in the past tense, because her life is still so much within me. She is my heart horse, my anchor, my guide and teacher, in deeper ways than that can generally be said. I can’t express the deep wound gouged in me by her passing. I feel her in every chamber of my heart, every fiber of my being.
This mare was determined from the beginning to make me into a better horsewoman. I know she tried very hard and bucked me off a few times to make sure I got the picture. But in that, she brought me to learn bodywork for horses, and to know horses more deeply. In the early years, she was a willing silent partner, with fierce determination and forward movement. We did everything together: endurance rides, countless training rides, workshops. She was a powerhouse in the mountains and there wasn’t any terrain she didn’t love to tackle.
Her common sense was incredible. As her years advanced I began to rely on her for her knowledge of things beyond what you would expect from a horse. She taught me to listen and not just act, but listen deeply, because she was always right.
Her herd listened to her too. They knew there was something inherently and deeply wise about her, that she would guide them even if she wasn’t the typical “lead” horse. She was a lead horse in her quiet direction of their lives, of my life.
Zuzka never faded like some older horses do. She was still a brilliant star in our herd of three, conversing with the crows, full of opinions. The white dot on her forehead only expanded to a wild spray of stars as she aged.
Zuzka loved to have her picture taken. When classes of photographers were about, she made sure to orchestrate it so she would get her photo taken and would pose. It was funny that a horse who liked to pretend she wasn’t there by hiding in the dark barn would at the same time enjoy this picture taking so much.
Her death came suddenly in the form of massive colic, and yet I believe she knew about it days in advance, and she tried to prepare me in small ways. She was always sound, still wanted to go out on the trail, and enjoyed her life. There was the obvious slowing down, but no outward signs of distress.
Just days before she passed, I rode her. She felt so vibrant, so deeply herself, so a part of me and I a part of her. Her spirit is now a white dove in contrast to her deep dark coat, and soars readily toward the heavens. The body cannot restrain her now, as she flies free and joins her lifelong friend, Khami. She is greatly missed. With all the words I spill, I have no words. Go in peace, my dear precious girl.
(c) Susan Smith, Horses at Liberty Foundation Training, Equine Body Balance (TM)
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