September 27, 2010
I had no idea of the workload in filming this docuseries. It is interesting because it is strange to have a camera crew, who are completely impersonal, watching me cry or get emotional or be totally authentic in front of unknown people. It certainly feels so uncomfortable to talk about my innermost feelings and personal thoughts to total strangers.
I am so excited in one way, but the more I come into my right mind, the more I look at the monstrous mistakes made by my ego, self-sabotaging the other side. I am miserable at the mistakes made. I am so sad when I think of how I blew it.
September 30, 2010
I am so excited about Finding Sarah. It is now my only focus to get myself right, once and for all. I just cannot go on any longer like this. I am riddled with NO self-worth. None.
19 Heather Blaze
Life is like horse jumping: you must set high goals, take high risks, and strive to make every round clear.
WHEN I AM in trouble, I turn to horses for healing. The first time a horse healed me was when my marriage to Andrew was in ruins and I was at a desperate physical and emotional ebb. In November 1993, I was watching the British Grand Prix, a show-jumping event at Hickstead. I glanced at the screen and became transfixed. A remarkable horse was in action, a huge gray ballerina of a horse, clearing each jump with daylight. What stopped me, too, was the rider, a silver-haired man in a green coat who looked a bit like Liam Neeson. He was the rarest of performers: a stylist. He rode with no spurs. There was elegance and ease in his riding, and you could tell by his body that he talked to and listened to his horse—they moved in perfect rhythm. This man was the most intuitive of riders.
I had not ridden for close to five years. I’d lost my feeling for horses, the sort of thing that happens when you stop listening to yourself. Captivated, I wanted to meet this rider. I knew he could teach me, and I knew he could help me retrieve something.
At the time, I had nothing—I had just moved into a small detached house with my two girls—and had no money coming in regularly. Yet on an impulse, I rang up my most loyal and special assistant, Jane Ambler, and asked her to find this man. It took her two days, but she succeeded. The man’s name was Robert Splaine, and he ran an equestrian center in Belgooly in County Cork.
That same month I boarded an Aer Lingus flight to Cork. Two hours later I was shaking hands with Robert and his wife, Eileen, at their home in the rich Irish countryside.
From the stables—this sort of rickety old barn—came Heather Blaze, the gray ballerina, and she was a magnificent, beautiful horse, one of the finest mares in Ireland. The relationship between this horse and Robert was like none I have ever witnessed. When she looked at Robert, you could tell she was in love with him and so responsive to his Irish lilt. I watched them together. She flirted with him, tossing her big rabbitlike ears, and played with him, and Robert returned the affection. The greatest-ever love affair between a horse and a rider—this was Heather Blaze and Robert.
I never rode her because she did not want to have anything to do with me—she loved Robert, and Robert only.
I felt very comfortable in Ireland with Robert and Eileen, sitting around the fire and enjoying soda bread and tea. I blended right in with their family of dogs and horses. It all felt very natural and they accepted me like a sister. It took me back to my roots and I began to breathe again. I started traveling to Ireland a lot to visit the Splaines.
The horse business specializes in prodigious ups and downs. One day I saw Robert come into the training ring, leading Heather Blaze, and he had tears in his eyes.
“Robert, what on earth is wrong with you?”
“The people who own Heather Blaze are selling her to a US interest for close to one million dollars. Soon I will be losing her.”
For Robert, this was heartbreaking. Heather Blaze was a spectacular mix of talent, heart, and temperament: a horseman could go a lifetime without finding her like. Without his long-eared beauty, Robert could no longer compete at the top international level, and this seemed to me a crime, a waste of brilliance and grace.
“Over my dead body will that horse leave you!”
I had no funds to speak of at the time, but I vowed that I would raise the money we needed to keep Heather Blaze. I had to help Robert; I couldn’t let him and Eileen down.
Somehow I raised over three hundred thousand dollars—not a match for the other buyer’s purchase price, but enough for a down payment to forestall the sale. It was too thrilling for belief, that I actually owned such a marvelous horse.
“We must keep her,” I told Robert, “because I believe you are going to win the Olympic gold for Ireland.”
Robert was such a good man; he deserved it.
At the same time, by focusing on Heather Blaze and helping her, I actually started healing my own life.
Heather Blaze was jumping in peak form in 1995, winning with regularity, but I knew that her acid test would be the King George V Gold Cup in July. As the most coveted trophy in England, the King George lured the very best horses from throughout the world; no Irish rider had won it in thirty-five years. Then again, no rider had been riding the likes of Heather Blaze. Before the competition, I walked up to Heather Blaze and whispered in her ear, “Don’t be frightened of the planks, because you are owned by Robert. Just for him, because you are not going anywhere. You are safe.”
Robert had supreme confidence in his mount that day, and it showed in the first round. Of more than thirty competitors, only five jumped clear—and of those five, Heather Blaze was the quickest, sailing over the fences as though immune to gravity. Her good time allowed her to go last in the jump-off, exactly Robert’s plan.
Heather Blaze delivered that clear round, winning the day. The low-key Robert Splaine took off his hat, tipped it to me, and punched it in the air, to celebrate the high point of his career. Ireland had won!
No one knew I owned Heather Blaze, except Robert and myself, so it was amusing that the owner of the show-jumping ring invited me down to present the trophy. I was presenting it to myself; the secret made our feat the more special.
The amazing Heather Blaze continued to win. The more successful Heather became, the more self-healing I felt.
Some six weeks after the King George, Robert qualified for the Olympics in Atlanta—we had our dream. Next was the Dublin Horse Show in Millstreet, the Grand Prix of Ireland. It was raining that day. Heather Blaze did not like rain. As she started to jump, she must have lost her footing on the water jump. Her legs buckled and her forelegs folded beneath her. She fell upon landing and shattered her left foreleg. There was nothing to be done. She had no chance.
Heather Blaze was shot on the spot.
Robert’s first reaction was disbelief, then inconsolable grief. It’s customary to consult with an injured horse’s trainer before putting her down. But there was no way she could have been saved. He touched her one last time.
Robert walked across the ring, his head low. He had ridden Heather Blaze for four years; she was part of his family. Robert never really got over the loss. We could have bred her, but never did.
I had insured Heather Blaze for two million dollars—but the insurance company refused to pay the full amount. What they did pay, I gave to Robert to find a new horse. I wanted to keep him in the international ring. He was such a brilliant horseman—and he didn’t deserve what had happened.
In the wake of my own depression over the loss of Heather, I decided to take myself off to Qatar and ride the desert marathon race on a horse called Gal. I asked Robert and my father to fly over and train me.
On the way, Robert stopped in Zurich to see a friend. In the bowels of an indoor show-jumping ring he found a horse named Ballymoss who jumped well. Though a handsome brown Thoroughbred with obvious potential, Ballymoss was a flawed horse—flawed by nature in that he had a hole in his heart and windpipe. Further, he was malnourished.
Robert asked if we should buy him as he was uninsurable, so we did. We nurtured him
, and loved him. No sooner had the horse felt loved than he started to jump brilliantly. Not only that, his heart and windpipe healed. Ballymoss become the number-one show jumper in Ireland. We ended up selling Ballymoss, and he spent many years on the international circuit.
One day Robert saw this enormous great thumping stallion with feet as large as soup plates. His name was Bobbu. Robert wanted to buy him, but the owner said, “You don’t want him, because he is a tricky customer.” Well, we did buy him, and Robert turned him into a champion and trained him for Olympic success.
Bobbu came from the same bloodline as Heather Blaze, sired by King of Diamonds; in fact, he was a cousin of Heather’s. Like Heather Blaze, Bobbu became the best jumping horse in all of Ireland.
Bobbu helped Ireland win a string of international honors, and we wanted him to compete in the 2004 Olympics in Greece. But this was not to be.
One afternoon as Bobbu was returned to his stall, Robert noticed that something in his gait was off. A veterinarian was summoned, but an examination found that Bobbu was fine. Still, Robert sensed something was wrong with Bobbu’s right leg. Most people would have let him jump anyway, especially since he had passed the veterinarian examination.
The other option was to give Bobbu a special painkiller for horses to numb the pain. The issue of medicating horses has been a chronic source of controversy. Horses, like all animals, occasionally need medication. Horses are born to run, but their muscles get strained and their joints get stiff. Some of the routinely administered horse drugs not only improve their physical well-being, but also enhance their performance. This can be detrimental, though; a horse can literally overdo it, hurt its legs or muscles, or even run itself to death. Robert didn’t like to medicate his horses for that reason, and of course he would never administer performance-enhancing drugs. It was Robert’s decision to pull Bobbu from competition.
This was a fortunate decision. Had Bobbu gone on to compete in the Olympics for Ireland, he probably would have hurt himself. The ground was so hard and it was so hot, Bobbu would not have survived.
There is a happy ending: By keeping Bobbu out of competition, Robert saved his life. Bobbu turned out to be the number-one breeding stallion in the world for show jumpers. Every morning he wakes up, heads out to the field, and prances happily about. Bolts of energy come off him. He loves to flirt with all the mares. Endlessly delighted, full of himself, Bobbu lives an extraordinary life.
As for Robert, he is known as the finest show-jumping gentleman ever—at least in my eyes. And because of his success, he became the chef d’équipe of the Irish show-jumping team. So in the end he did win Olympic gold, but he won it in himself.
As for me, these horses made me feel alive again. In fact, I am never so much alive as when I am mingling among horses, and some days I don’t want to be anywhere else on earth.
From: Martha Beck
To: Sarah
Hello dear,
If you allow people who don’t know you to define you, you’ll be lost forever. There, in one sentence, is the simple truth about all human relationships.
xxx,
Martha
20 Horse Power
If you are frightened of a horse, he will know it. But if you trust him, the horse will know that, too, and he will repay your confidence with his diligence.
I HAVE BEEN RIDING horses since I was very young. So when Martha and Koelle suggested that I do equine therapy, I was excited—and intrigued.
Using horses and other animals as a means of therapy is not a new concept. Animals have helped people cope with trauma and disorders for many years, ranging from assisting people with disabilities and serving as rescue animals in cases of disaster to acting as companions for the aged and bedridden. The warmth of an animal’s body, the softness of its coat—the very fact that it is a living thing—provides an opportunity for emotional relief and connection.
The philosophy behind equine therapy begins with the premise that horses are great teachers, possessing an innate wisdom regarding those around them through the energy fields we all share. Horses are prey animals and have survived thousands of years in the wild based on their ability to pick up on the subtle energy of others, especially predators. By nature, horses have a keen sense of awareness and simultaneous presence (being fully present with themselves and others in the moment)—qualities we struggle a lifetime trying to learn. Some who work with horses believe the animals have a “human eye” that looks right into your soul to sense what you are feeling.
Others believe the bond between humans and animals, horses in particular, evolved from an ancient mutual dependence. In ancient times, animals were everything to us: food, shelter, clothing, even spiritual relatives. Only those humans who successfully developed a close understanding of animals and were enmeshed with the natural world managed to survive. I am Celtic through and through, and after studying how Celtic cultures embrace the horse as a spiritual symbol, I have come to believe that a relationship with animals can be transforming, guiding us toward authenticity and a more passionate life. In Celtic tradition, horses are known as aman cara—soul friends.
In short, equine therapy helps people deepen their spiritual connections, gain more clarity in their lives, and learn the meaning of living authentically.
The first time I tried equine therapy was during my first visit to Phoenix in June 2010. Koelle told me: “The time spent with the horses is going to be really important for you to focus on trusting yourself again and overcoming your fears. Horses are quite sensitive about picking up on what’s really true for us: our body language and our energy. And they’re brilliant at teaching people how to set healthy boundaries. I don’t know anything that can teach that better than a horse.”
Koelle was so right. She brought a horse out to the corral to see if I could get it to follow me. The horse wanted nothing to do with me. It would not follow me. “Why?” I asked Koelle.
“Do you believe in yourself, Sarah?
“No, of course not, I am always failing miserably.”
“The horse senses your insecurities, and as long as you project that negative energy, the horse will not follow you.”
I, the so-called expert horsewoman, had a lot to learn!
On my second trip to Phoenix, we ventured out to a Big Sky Ranch, a sprawling place nestled in the rolling foothills of the beautiful Sonoran Desert and infused with the peaceful sounds of nature.
As I wandered to the corral, I spied a stallion that was bleeding from his gums. All I knew was that I had to take care of him and do what was best for him. He had clumps of hair stuck in his teeth, and the hair was causing the bleeding. At first, he was angry and frightened as I approached, but as I stroked his neck and talked to him calmly, he stood quietly, with dignity, while I carefully pulled the hair from his gums and teeth. He sensed that I wanted him to be happy. The horse had been a naughty boy, biting the hair off the back of a nearby horse. I knew he’d be at it again, but I did my best to make him as comfortable as possible. Martha loves this story; she says it sums me up perfectly.
There was a horse chosen especially for me—one that had been abused. What a skittish, high-strung guy he was—a big bay horse, reddish-brown with black mane and tail, whose skin shivered as we approached. He looked at me wildly.
The horse had no name that we knew of, so I decided to call him Flea. Years before, on an Easter Sunday, while running in Grenada, I came across a tiny puppy abandoned on the side of the road. He was about six weeks old, scrawny as an old stick, and riddled with fleas. He squinted up at me with brown eyes that seemed full of the light of tragedy. I scooped him up and wrapped him in my handkerchief.
I knew the little fellow was close to death, not only flea ridden but malnourished and worm infested, too. I took him straightaway to a vet and waited six hours for someone to help me.
Eventually, he was cleaned, bathed, soothed, and inoculated against all the nasties that had plagued him. I left him overnight in the care of the vet staff bu
t returned the next day to retrieve him. I named him Flea. The perfect name!
Quarantine laws forbade me from taking Flea home to London, so I stayed on a while until I could find a proper home for him. And I did—with a wonderful, loving woman who would love him as I did.
And so here I was with his namesake, Flea the horse, with his clean, musky smell, the sun dappling his back, and like me, riddled with insecurities and paranoias.
Koelle and I guided Flea into the ring. When you approach a horse in a field, paddock, or arena, you have to walk slowly. Horses have boundaries like we do, and trust issues. At the point your horse raises his head to acknowledge your approach—or walks away—or walks toward you—you have just bumped into his boundaries.
Unlike horses, I was never good at establishing boundaries. I am too trusting, and it gets me in trouble. By boundary, I mean a healthy barrier between you and other people—like a strong gate that you construct in areas of your life with a sign attached that reads STOP, THAT’S NOT ACCEPTED HERE. It’s a line in your life, where you have determined that others cannot cross. Boundaries that are clearly defined and defended say things like: “You may not verbally abuse me or invade my space.” We have an internal boundary, too—an invisible shield that guards and protects us from verbal hurts. It stops us from automatically taking in or accepting another’s hurtful words.
In the ring with Flea I had to gain his trust by showing him that I was the leader. Horses want someone else to lead; they would rather not have that responsibility. When you’re working with a horse, it wants to know that you are a capable leader who will not allow harm to come to it.
I was to use my energy to get Flea to walk ahead of me, and at the same time show him that I was in control—the leader of the pack. No riding was involved. Horses are herd animals, and so it’s best to lead them from behind. This reminded me that we need to let others take the visible lead as we play an important role behind the scenes.
Finding Sarah Page 14
