Category: Women and Horses

Blue Horses: Part One

After saying prayers and goodbyes to my sister’s lifeless body last October, I walked out of the hospice facility. The sun had just risen. It was a brisk fall Illinois morning. Orange and red leaves glowed against the blue-gray sky. Deadened meadow flowers hung black and limp in the frost. And there, emerging from the meadow grass, I saw two horse statues that appeared to be mother and child. The small one was white, but it was the taller blue horse that caught my attention. Transfixed, I walked over to them for a closer inspection. I took photos with my phone as I marveled. Donated by grateful families, the blue horse is “Hope Reigns,” and the younger horse is “Joyful Spirit.” 

White and blue horses in the staff recognition garden of the JourneyCare Hospice Center, Barrington, Illinois

This was not the first time that a blue horse has caught my attention. Indeed, the blue horse has been a recurring figure—in my dreams, my shamanic journeys and in my art—for about two decades. Months before my sister’s death, and now, months after her death, the blue horse has revealed itself again and again to me.

The blue horse resides in a land beyond words, beyond time, beyond everyday dimensions. It lives in imaginal consciousness—a very real world that so often is at the periphery of our conscious knowing. We get glimpses from time to time which often fascinate and remind us of the divine. My relationship with the imaginal world and its intelligence led me to leave a high-paying profession to become an art therapist—and later to follow its guidance to pick up another path, and then another path. Following symbolic wisdom has been my trustiest compass. A blue horse helped me before upon the death of a loved one, reminding me in my grief that we are not alone in our suffering—and surely was the reason behind the statues residing in the memory garden of the hospice center. 

And I am not alone. Blue horses have come to other artists and writers. German artist Franz Marc painted blue horses. His art was banned by the Nazis because it was not realistic and was therefore a threat to society. An art teacher introduced beloved children’s author Eric Carle to Franz Marc’s blue horses when he was just twelve. In one of his last books, Carle credited the blue horses as the impetus for his prolific career resulting in more than seventy books. Marc’s blue horses—and the artist’s death in World War I—also inspired Mary Oliver to choose her Blue Horses poem as the title for one of her poetry collections near the end of her life. 

In my next blog post, I will share more about how specific blue horses have come to me—in mysterious and synchronistic ways—and why this very real world of symbolic wisdom is so important for us. 

References 

Carle, Eric. The Artist Who Painted a Blue Horse. New York: Penguin Random House, LLC.(2011). 

Oliver, Mary. Blue Horses: Poems. New York: The Penguin Press. (2014). 

For more information about Franz Marc, see https://www.franzmarc.org/ and https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Franz_Marc 

 

Boots: Musings on Taking a Leap

Two weeks after I left the bank to become an art therapist, I became pregnant with my first child. I have always believed that my son incarnated when he did once he saw that I was on the path of the heart. This painting takes me back to that time.

“Boots” by Catherine Held, 1990

More than thirty years ago, I took a painting class from Sonoma State University (SSU) professor and noted artist Bill Morehouse. I needed to fulfill prerequisites for the master’s degree in art therapy. On the strength of Suzanne Lovell’s weekend extension course in transpersonal art therapy, and the images that bubbled up afterward from a daily art journal, I had quit a well-paying job at a business bank to pursue art therapy. It was quite a leap. Until reading the description in the SSU extension catalog, I had never even heard of art therapy before, but it felt like the profession had been tailor made for me. In the five years before I applied to the program, I had learned everything I could about psychology and personal healing, and I had always made art, crafts and worked with my hands. Then, two weeks after leaving the bank, as I prepared to become an art therapist, I became pregnant with my son.

I signed up to take a sculpture class only to learn at the first class that we would be using power tools and being exposed to chemicals. Afraid that they would harm my baby, I quickly transferred to a painting class. One of our first assignments was to create a self-portrait by painting an autobiographical object.

Three years into my second marriage, I was still getting my footing as a wife and as a stepmom to two girls. As much as I longed for a baby, I was fearful about becoming a mom. I didn’t want to screw it up. I was afraid of losing sleep because I had a breakdown experience when I was twenty years old, partly precipitated by lack of sleep. I worried about losing my independence and spontaneity. I worried that I did not know how to mother a boy. I worried that I was woefully unqualified.

As I surveyed special keepsakes looking for an autobiographical object, I suddenly thought of my boots. They were the leather boots I bought for myself when I went off to University of California, Santa Cruz at age eighteen. Bookish and shy, I bought the boots for a person I did not yet inhabit. They were a rich mahogany, with leather braid on the outside of each boot. The length of the boots and deep vee shape in the front accentuated my long legs. When I tucked my jeans into them, they made my legs look longer still. They always made me feel confident, sexy and more adventurous.

Long after college, I wore them every Halloween when I would dress as a gypsy. My last October at the bank, I read tarot cards to my co-workers in those boots. (They didn’t know that the readings were informed by my secret interest in metaphysics.) I loved those boots and had them re-soled numerous times. Although my business flats were far more practical and well-used, just knowing my boots were still waiting in my closet was reassuring.

Bill Morehouse showed us how to stretch the canvas and use a staple gun. I painted and re-painted the boots on canvas trying to capture dimensionality. The real struggle was trying to paint my essential self—a self that was about to be irrevocably changed as mother to an infant. New to acrylic painting, I was grateful for Bill’s end-of-term comment. “Keep painting,” he said.

I painted the boots to immortalize them and to challenge myself to not lose myself in the needs of others. Now, three decades later, I notice some things about the image. When I look at the painting, my legs remember how the leather lay in wrinkles on my ankles. I notice that the top of the left boot forms a heart shape. Today, the vivid blue sky and tawny ground remind me of my first glimpses of the golden California hills in summer as well as the Ukrainian flag. Mostly, I notice that the boots are empty. I didn’t know that my feet would grow with each pregnancy and that I would outgrow my beloved boots. I hung onto those boots for years after I could no longer fit into them. Now only the painting remains.

I no longer have that pair of boots, but instead of one pair I have several. I have hiking boots. I have sexy black suede boots that come up past my knees. I have two pairs of dress cowgirl boots including the red leather ones I found in Albuquerque on a cross-country trip helping my daughter move. I also have leather barn boots as well as big black rubber boots that are good for mucking out stalls and rainy weather.

As I chose a topic for my blog, this painting called out to me. I am at another transition point, contemplating a serious lifelong commitment, again afraid of responsibility and inadequacy.

I had an imaginary horse as a girl, but I have never owned a horse.  As a grown woman, I have loved and cared for two elder horses in the last years of their lives. Other women owned them and took care of their day-to-day needs. I have studied equine-assisted learning, I have interviewed countless women about their experiences with horses and spent many years writing thousands of words about the connection between women and horses.

As I reflect on the painting and my fears when pregnant, I know that my fears were not unfounded. My life did change overnight with the birth of my son. Many times, I was unprepared and overwhelmed with the responsibility. There have been hard times and scary times. But what I forgot when I was pregnant and remind myself of now is the joy that I would have missed if I had never become a mom. Treasured moments of connection, of laughter, of love. Thousands of ordinary moments. And my fears of losing sleep and possibly breaking down? Middle of the night feedings of my babies remain some of my most priceless experiences.

In recent months, I have looked at the high costs of taking care of a horse and made some initial inquiries into boarding a horse. I have started a special savings account. I am afraid that I might not be able to meet his or her financial needs and concerned about my lack of horse skills. I think that this painting caught my attention now for a good reason. Like with being a mom and stepmom, I can learn new skills and ask for help. Now as, I contemplate having a horse companion come into my life, this painting reminds me to focus on the possibilities—and that taking a leap can bring unexpected joys and rewards.

Writing to the Soul of the Work

photo of soul of the work journal, candle and laptop
This is my second Soul of the Work Journal

Yesterday I listened to a presentation by Nicole Costerus about how to connect with the soul of my business. Nicole supports women to grow their gifts as intuitive, soul-based leaders. She led us in a visualization to connect with our free and alive selves as well as with either the soul of our business or our personal mission.

This focus on conscious connection reminded me that I have been doing a similar process in the writing of my upcoming book, Called by the Horse: Women, Horses and Consciousness.

Continue reading “Writing to the Soul of the Work”

Called to the Horse Through Dreams and Art

Some women are called to horses through art and dreams, like Kim McElroy in this description of a potent horse dream that she had as a girl.

pastel drawing of three horses by catherine held
Pastel Horses, April 2021 by Catherine Held

Recently, I pulled out Kim McElroy’s Secrets of Drawing Horses dvd given to me by the artist when we met at her home in the Pacific Northwest in 2014. On vacation with my daughter, I had spotted prints of some of her pastel horse paintings. When I picked up the first image, I was delighted to find that among the white clouds were hidden horses. After generously inviting me to her home, I interviewed her for my forthcoming book, Called by the Horse: Women, Horses and Consciousness.

Kim has since made the workshop available for free online. It begins with The Girl Who Wanted to be a Horse. In it Kim describes her girlhood love of horses and her frustration while trying to capture the movement of horses in her drawings. When she imagined herself as a horse, though, the drawings came easily. Afterwards, she fell asleep in her friend’s hayloft where a white winged horse came to her in her dreams to tell her she could tune into the magical power of horses through her imagination and art and affirmed her path as an artist.

Following prompts from the DVD, I listened to Kim’s meditation. I imagined myself as a horse in a sea of horses and picked up chalk pastels to draw the feelings evoked in the drawing shown here.

I believe that women are called to horses in many ways, including, as in Kim’s experience, through dreams and art as well as to living, breathing horses. My curiosity about the call to the horse experienced by so many women has preoccupied me for almost twenty years. Why now? What does it mean? How shall we respond? These are questions I have wrestled with in the book. As I prepare the manuscript for publication, the answers are clearer. Ultimately, I have come to believe that horses are calling women—and some men—to empower us into greater leadership and partnership for the sake of our precious Earth and all of her inhabitants.

Celebrate the Equine Equinox Tonight

Primo in July 2019

Since 2004, I have been celebrating the “Equine Equinox.” The purpose of this simple ritual is to celebrate horses past and present with gratitude for their remarkable contributions to humankind. Equinox means “equal night;” twice a year, day and night are approximately equal, lasting twelve hours each. I see this as a time of planetary balance, which is something that is sorely needed at this time amidst a worldwide pandemic. Horses themselves are models of balance—they are sensitive and powerful, graceful and strong, and come together with a one mind consciousness and flexible leadership style when faced with a threat.

In January, I said goodbye to my Peruvian Paso companion, Primo, who is now one of the Horse Ancestors. Tonight at 8:49 pm. Pacific Standard Time, I invite you to join me. I will create a simple altar, light a candle, and give prayers of gratitude for Primo and all the horses who have contributed to humankind throughout the millennia. I will also ask for their forgiveness for ways in which they have been mistreated by humans. It is my intention that this ritual will help restore balance in our relationships with the natural world.

If the Equine Equinox resonates with you, feel free to create your own simple ritual to honor our equine friends and invite greater harmony and balance into your life.

How Horses Teach Us to Lead

Happy New Year, Everyone!

I am excited to share that my article, “How Horses Teach Us to Lead,” was published in the Winter 2020 edition of the Sonoma County Horse Council’s Horse Journal. I have shared it with you below. To read the complete journal or learn more about the Horse Council, click here.

Horses Teach Us To Lead

To download a copy of my article, you can right click on the pdf and “Save Image As.”

Handing Over the Reins

Black Beauty, horses, healing, women, vintage toys, Catherine Held
The Modern Consumer–1950s Product and Style Exhibit, Girls’ Toys Display, SFO United Terminal, April 2019; Photo by Catherine Held

A few weeks ago on my way to Tucson, an interesting museum exhibit in the United Terminal at SFO caught my eye. It had artifacts from the consumer culture that arose in the 1950s. One glass case profiled girls’ toys, while another profiled the toys marketed to boys. Not surprisingly, the boys’ toys are futuristic and space-themed. 

Black Beauty, horses, healing, women, vintage toys, Catherine Held
The Modern Consumer–1950s Product and Style, Boys’ Toys Display, SFO United Terminal, April 2019; Photo by Catherine Held

It was the case with the girls’ toys, though, that caught my eye. Along with a jump rope, a dress designing kit, a Barbie and Ken doll set and a gum-wrapper chain was a gem. Produced in 1958 by the Transogram Company was the “Game of Black Beauty.”

Black Beauty, of course, was the 1877 children’s classic by Anna Sewell. For more than one hundred years, the book has remained one of the most beloved children’s books ever written. There have been numerous film versions and adaptations recounting the trials of the black horse. Written from the stallion’s perspective, Anna Sewell hoped that it would open eyes to the poor treatment of horses. Housebound due to illness at the end of her life, she died just five months after completing her only novel. The author never lived to see her book called the “Uncle Tom’s Cabin of the Horse,” or to be used as a call to action for the protection of horses and other animals.

Black Beauty, women, healing, horses, vintage toys, Catherine Held
The Modern Consumer–1950s Product and Style Exhibit, Vintage Black Beauty Board Game, SFO United Terminal, April 2019; Photo by Catherine Held

A close look at the box shows children dressed in clothes of the time period. (I remember wearing bobby socks!) My surprise is that it is a boy holding the reins to Black Beauty, while one girl sits and the other girl stands nearby. This was a toy marketed to girls, yet the boy is the one shown in the active role with the horse.

This time capsule look at girls’ games shows that times and gender roles sure have changed. By 1958, advertisers and marketing departments recognized that the game would appeal to girls, but on the box top, the reins of the horse still remained in the hands of boys and men.

Sixty years after the game came out, girls and women now dominate virtually every endeavor related to horses except for horse racing. Since the early 2000’s I have been tracking the shift in the culture that has brought horses out of the hands of men and into the domain of girls and women. I wrote my Ph.D. in Depth Psychology about what that might mean for the culture, and am currently completing my book, Called by the Horse: Women, Horses and Consciousness to present some of my findings.

Move over boys, the girls are holding the reins now.

For more about how Black Beauty impacted the ethical treatment of horses and other animals:

http://westbynorthwest.org/artman/publish/printer_1177.shtml

Meet “Dr.” Peyo: A Horse Who Heals With His Heart

cheval-de-coeurSome of the most interesting science behind equine therapy and equine facilitated learning focuses on the measurable heart connection between horses and humans. But science alone cannot adequately explain how horses heal humans or the sense of wonder it evokes. Recently, as I was writing a chapter in my book about horses and healing, I watched some videos of a very special French stallion named Peyo from the Dijon region of France. In the video, Peyo and his person, Hassen Bouchakour, visit Ehpad des Orchards of Chartreuse de Dijon, a convalescent hospital serving people with Alzheimer’s and other end-of-life issues. After backing out of his horse trailer and negotiating the elevator, Peyo chooses which room to enter. He invariably seeks out people that are very, very sick or close to dying, and his healing presence brings great joy to the suffering. Though the video is in French, no translation is needed to witness the healing power of Peyo’s generous heart.

Peyo originally came to Hassen Bouchakour as a dressage horse. Dressage, sometimes described as horse ballet, requires exquisite wordless communication and trust between horse and rider. Apparently, at first, Bouchakour, a world champion in artistic dressage, and Peyo did not click. In fact, at one point, Bouchakour was ready to give up on Peyo and put him up for sale. However, one day, something shifted between the two and everything changed. It was at dressage shows that Bouchakour first noticed Peyo’s propensity toward tending to the ill. The oft-fiery stallion would instinctively move toward the disabled members of the audience where he appeared tender and docile to their touch.

Bouchakour embarked on a three-year journey preparing Peyo to visit the ill and aged. He worked diligently to help the horse grow used to noise and different levels of flooring so that Peyo would be more comfortable inside of hospitals and convalescent homes.

Tremendous care goes into prepping Peyo for the actual visits. His body is covered in antiseptic lotion and a blanket. His mane and tail are tightly braided, and Hassen stays close to him at all times. Medical staff and patients alike appear astonished by the incredible results Peyo achieves simply from his soothing presence: patients who no longer talk, speak; those who don’t move, walk. The handsome stallion’s loving, gentle presence seems to evoke love from those he visits and helps to remind us that healing is always possible. As we move into spring, the time of new beginnings, may we, too, have generous hearts and deep heart connections. Enjoy Peyo’s special message of hope and healing in this article and the videos below.

Peyo and Hassen Visit Ehpad des Orchards of Chartreuse de Dijon:

Check Out Peyo’s Dressage Moves Here!

Tend and Befriend: The Casserole Brigade

Campbell’s Soup Casserole Ad Published Redbook, May 1977, Vol. 149, No. 1 by Classic Film licensed under CC BY 2.0

I am currently writing a chapter about trauma, and how horses help heal trauma for my forthcoming book, Called by the Horse: Women, Horses, and Consciousness. In writing about how trauma affects women differently than men, I took a fresh look at the research that Shelley E. Taylor and her colleagues published in 2000 in the American Psychological Association’s Psychological Review.

Essentially, the article reveals that because of gender bias, previous studies related to the biological results of stress were done on men and male animals. The prevailing idea of “Fight or Flight” from the 1930s came from studying men and male laboratory animals, not female subjects. The research from Taylor’s team showed that while the biological Fight or Flight responses applied to men and women, in women there was a different hormonal response that kicked in: the “Tend and Befriend” response.

“Feel good” and bonding hormones such as oxytocin (found in breastfeeding, giving birth and orgasm) are released in women under stress. Oxytocin is also released in mutual grooming activities like grooming a horse or petting a cat. The hormones cause a biological drive to take care of each other (tend) and to gather with others (especially women) for support, to gather resources and for protection (befriend).

I checked out Taylor’s book, The Tending Instinct. The book is great, but I was disappointed to learn that the genesis of this groundbreaking research came from a lecture that Taylor attended with her graduate students on the amygdala, the part of the brain responding to threats. The bias towards using male subjects in stress research was so obvious that it triggered the drive to study how stress affects women.

My Version: The Casserole Brigade

I was disappointed in Taylor’s version because I had heard a different story about how she and her team chose to study women and stress that was much more relatable. Years ago, I heard the story that Taylor and some of her women research colleagues noticed that when work was especially stressful, the men tended to disappear back to their desks (flight), while the women brought goodies to share and gathered in the work kitchen to eat and commiserate together (tend and befriend).

I recognize the urge to gather and share food; when there is a serious illness or death in a family, women are often the first responders, arriving with casseroles and sweets to share. In September, when my neighbor heard that my beloved cat died, she immediately brought chocolate.

Tend and Befriend as an Evolutionary Advantage

While I prefer my origin story, what is more important is that this research has an interesting hypothesis and important implications. During the million or so years our ancestors were hunter-gatherers, there were evolutionary advantages to the biology of stress; faced with the threat of dangerous animals or human attackers, men were more likely to flee or fight.

It is theorized that women, on the other hand, especially of childbearing age, had to stand their ground in order to take care of babies and small children. They were probably also taking care of the sick and elderly. Fleeing would be more of a threat to themselves and their vulnerable dependents. Women’s biological Tend and Befriend programming encouraged nurturing and banding together with other women, thus protecting their small groups and ultimately the human species.

Why is this important and what does it have to do with horses? Women’s Tend and Befriend instinct shows an evolutionary advantage toward cooperation rather than the competitive and brutal assumptions we have of the survival of the fittest as “natural.”

Horses are one of the oldest surviving species on the planet, probably because they recognize mares as leaders. It’s time to come together and take our place as leaders as we just saw with the U.S. 2018 midterm elections. We need to access the cooperative herd consciousness and leadership skills that come naturally to horses—and are hardwired in women—for the survival of our own species.

Bring on the Casserole Brigade.

More Interesting than Grass

Most Tuesday mornings find me pulling on my barn boots and threadbare jeans for “Tuesdays with Primo.” In my left back pocket is a scrap from some flannel pajamas that I use to wipe his face. I did not intend to fall in love with another senior horse but I did. Primo lives eight minutes from my urban bungalow down a country lane.

Four years ago, I overheard a woman mention that she was taking care of her friend’s horse. The woman was quite ill and her mare needed attention. It seemed like an ideal situation because I wanted a horse in my life. I offered to walk and groom the mare, but after our first meeting, Freddy, the woman taking care of her friend’s horse, said that it wasn’t a good match. She did, however, see or intuited a connection between Primo and me that I didn’t see.

Primo was about twenty six we met. I was much more interested in hanging out with a younger horse. My heart had broken when Guiness died a few years before and I was reluctant to make another deep emotional attachment to a senior horse. For the longest time, Freddy told me that Primo really liked me. I had a hard time believing her, especially because he rarely did what I asked of him.

But I fell in love anyway.

Tuesday, the week before Valentine’s Day, I walked into the pasture filled with lush green grass. Primo knew I was there but continued eating. Without putting his halter on, I nudged him to walk with me toward the gate. Unrestrained, he followed me like a puppy. Each time it feels like a certified miracle. When I first worked with him, he would wander away when I came toward him with the halter. I would chase him all around the field until he gave up on the game. I never blamed him, though sometimes I got frustrated. I blamed my own inadequate horsemanship skills. (It would be several years before I learned that he evaded Freddy, too, unless she lured him with a small carrot.) The only way to get him through the gate was haltered, and getting him to allow the halter was difficult.

Every small act four years ago was hard; finding a halter that fit Primo among the jumble of different sizes, figuring out how to latch the gate, and remembering that the buckle on the halter goes in my left hand. Through it all we learned to love and trust each other. I’ve learned to drop into Horse Time. I relax now as I walk out to the field and let Primo take some transition time before coming with me.

I take my time as I groom Primo before our walk. Long bundles of brown horse hair fall off as I brush him. As I touched him, an image came. I am riding him. I feel the visceral feeling of being held and supported by Primo. We haven’t ridden for at least two years because of his age, though now a young boy rides him every week.

Primo almost died two years ago, and every time I see him, I treasure our time together. I notice details about him as if to etch him more fully into my very being. A bit of his mane lies on his left side like an angel’s wing. His rear legs have white socks. His tail almost reaches the ground. His stiff right hind leg is getting harder for him to lift up when I clean his hoof. Like his forebears, this Peruvian Paso is known for his steady gait, but sometimes I can hear his right hind hoof slipping and I brace myself for his inevitable last day. Tears appear as I allow myself to feel my anticipatory grief, quickly drying again as I drink in my gratitude that we are both here now.

Safe Harbor
Tuesday, we walked calmly past the two dogs behind the neighbor’s fence. They bark at us every week as we pass. Schooner is grey, black and mottled. He used to bark at us only half-heartedly until a few months ago when the younger all-black dog joined him. Now, the two bark at us hysterically each week. Schooner barks for the last time under his favorite spot under the pyracantha bushes laden with orange berries. Dogs may be man’s best friend but historically they were not so to the horse. The wolf ancestors of Schooner and the young black dog are natural predators of horses. At first, we both startled at this weekly cacophony, but Primo looked to me for cues. He learned that I was a safe harbor. We take the barking dogs in stride now. Primo has been my safe harbor, too. I remember a moment of terror when one of Freddy’s mares, Rosebud, charged us both at a full gallop as we were coming through the gate from one of the fields. Primo stood in Rosebud’s way and shielded me from getting mowed down at the open gate.

Down the lane, but before the five red mail boxes, I let Primo stop for a bite of grass at our usual spot. I saw a small white rabbit munch something nearby. Overhead was a lone  mourning dove. Later I heard the familiar trill of red winged blackbirds. Surprisingly, Primo wasn’t very interested in the grass at the side of the lane. Later when we reached his home, he spent a few minutes lingering with me before joining the other horses out on the field.

Years ago, when I hung out with Guiness, Alyssa Aubrey said that I needed to “be more interesting than grass” to get the attention of a horse. Today, I can say that when given the choice between a field full of new grass, and spending time with me, Primo found me more interesting than grass.