Ammy vs. Pro
So, the old Pro-Ammy debate. Or, the old Ammy Whine. You know the one: “I want to teach a few up-down lessons a week and I can’t do that because I’d have to give up my ammy status and turn pro and wah-wah-wah it’s not fair!”
Actually, it is fair. It is entirely fair. Because—and this is important—if you are receiving money for just one up-down lesson a week, you are running a business. A small business, but a business. At that point, every time you step into the show ring your ride is about more than just you and your horse. It’s also about showing off your abilities to potential clients—or to your current client(s). Even if there’s only one, and that one is your neighbor little Suzie, who worships the ground you trot on. Other parents, and Suzie’s parents, will be watching you ride. They’ll evaluate the skills you show. If you do well, maybe those other parents will approach you about teaching Jimmy. If you do poorly, maybe Suzie’s parents will think about finding a new instructor. You might not be thinking along these lines, but other people will. Even with just one student, every time you walk into the ring you are representing yourself, your horse, and your business. That’s a professional concern, and it has no place—absolutely none—in a ring with amateurs, who have no business concerns. None. Not one student, not one horse they are training (except their own).
I realize a lot of would-be up-down instructors don’t think of it as a business. They think of it as side income, something to help them level the costs of participating in an expensive hobby. I always wonder about that, because… do they tell their students that they don’t view the lessons as a business? That they think the up-down lessons are so… I don’t even know the word here… unimportant… that they want, on the one hand, to take the students’ money for teaching but on the other hand have the rest of the horse world say “It’s ok, you’re not really teaching. You (or your students) aren’t good enough to qualify you for Professional status, so be an ammy.”
Would you want to ride under someone like that? And I don’t mean someone who, maybe, chooses not to show but is a great instructor, so Pro-Ammy status never comes up. I mean someone who wants to teach, and get all the money and benefits of teaching, but then walk into the ring and claim they aren’t professional. What: “I’m good enough to teach you, but I’m not good enough to show against anyone else who teaches.”?
I don’t… get it. You teach and you’re a professional, or you don’t teach and you’re an ammy. You can’t teach just a little bit and still be an ammy, because no matter how people try to justify that, it comes across to me as… entirely unprofessional.
Everything has consequences, right? One of the consequences of teaching a few up-down lessons a week is that you now have a business to represent. You don’t get to stop representing it just because you want to show as an amateur. So you decide: is amateur status more important than the income a few up-down lessons might bring? If it is, you don’t get to teach. Period. You get to be an amateur, but that means being an amateur. If the income is more important, than you lose your amateur status. You get to be an instructor, but that means being a professional. In all aspects—not just the ones that put money in your pocket.
(This rant brought to you by the letter “If I see one more discussion board topic about an amateur thinking they should be allowed to teach lessons and stay an amateur, I’m going to scream” and the number “I am still young enough to see things in black-and-white, but I’m old enough to know there’s lots of gray in the world, so I’d be happy to discuss the other side of this issue” and the conundrum “So why is it I’m happy to discuss this on a blog but not a discussion board, anyway? Oh, right: less trolls.”)
A New Approach
Kelly has an interesting post on fear and riding (thanks to LearningHorses for the link). As we all know, the thought of jumping makes me want to pull the covers over my head and cry myself to sleep. Between Kelly’s post and my own thoughts on the fear issue, I’ve reached some tentative conclusions:
- I’m afraid of getting hurt again. [This is where you look sympathetic and say, “So, you must have had a really bad fall and broken a lot of bones or something, right?” And I look sheepish and say, “No, not exactly.” And then, figuratively speaking, I start doodling on a napkin and refusing to meet your eyes while I try to figure out what I’m supposed to say now. And then my eyes brighten and I say, “But I did crack my knuckles once!” because while I hate to justify the constant small but naggingly painful muscle injury periods I went through, everyone understands a broken bone. And how many people can say they cracked all their knuckles, anyway?]
- The fear is not the problem. Anyone who thought twice about jumping would be afraid because… really, now. While my degree of fear is probably a bit irrational, there’s nothing particularly shameful in admitting that jumping is dangerous.
- The problem is that I don’t address that fear. During the three years I took off riding after college, I spent a lot of time thinking of all the could-have-beens and what-ifs. And there was nothing to counteract that—I wasn’t on a horse and riding and having good experiences to reassure me. I wasn’t even on a horse and having bad experiences, which would at least have alerted me to my onrushing fear. Instead, I focused on the negative aspects of my injuries and didn’t even admit that I was letting fear grow.
- And now that I’m back riding, I’m still not convinced I want to address my fear of jumping—although I do (obviously) realize it’s there. You see? The fear itself is not my problem. My reluctance to address it is.
So I should just address it right? Ah. But there’s a catch. A Catch 22, in fact:
I am afraid to jump because I never address that fear and make myself take that first step towards jumping again, no matter how small that step is.
I am afraid to jump because my back cannot handle it, physically, and I inevitably end up injured. This is not a possibility; this is a certainty.
So… if I force myself to address my fear and jump, I’m going to end up hurt because of my back. Thus confirming that I was right to be afraid and setting me back where I started. Or, I do not jump and keep trying to make my back stronger, hoping that eventually I’ll be able to handle jumping physically… but in the meantime, I continue my passive non-addressing of my fear issues, which leaves me exactly where I am now.
The third possibility, of course, is that I overthink these things and I’m a psychologist’s dream come true. Just think of all the tropical vacations my phobia could finance!
I"d love to say that I don’t really care if I can’t jump and it’s not important to me and la-de-da Dressage. That’s true, at one level: I do prefer Dressage to jumping, and I always have, and a large part of me doesn’t mind the thought of never jumping. But I can’t say all of me is ok with that, because if I were, I wouldn’t keep bringing it up here, would I? (Hmm… I’m going to have to start paying my blog for the therapy sessions. I wonder where computers go on vacation?)
Several years ago, I was in a jumping clinic with a more advanced group than I’d normally be in. I was used to jumping 3’. Everyone else was used to jumping much higher. We were supposed to jump around at 3’3”, but you know how things go in the heat of the moment. Three times I turned a corner to an oxer on the diagonal—it was probably 3’9” and reasonably wide. Three times I fluffed the distance. Isn’t fluffed a great word? It sounds so… soft. Massacred would probably be a better choice—the only reason we got over the fence was that the horse I was riding was very scopy, far more honest than he should have been in that situation, and willing to bail me out every time.
But after the third jump, the clinician called me over and reamed me. Did the path I took to the jump work the first time, he asked. No, I said. Did it work the second time? he asked. No, I said. So what on God’s green earth was I doing riding the same friggin’ path a third time? he asked. Well, in all honesty there wasn’t so much asking going on as there was screaming—but I will never forget what he said next:
When the approach you’re taking isn’t working, find a new approach.
We took a new approach on our next go. We hit the proper distance. Amazing.
Since I started riding last year, I’ve been taking one (failed) approach to my fear of jumping: I can’t address the issue in the saddle for physical reasons, and so I’ve assumed there was nothing I could do except sort-of ignore it and hope it would go away.
That approach, clearly, isn’t working. That fact that I’m afraid irritates and bothers me. So if my approach isn’t working… I need a new approach.
Perhaps reading the book Kelly mentions on her blog would be a start. Or there’s another book title that I see floating around frequently—I want to say it’s The Winning Way by Jane Savoie or something like that. At least by reading I’ll be doing something about my fear, instead of letting myself settle into a rut of inaction.
How to teach a horse upper-level dressage
Teaching a horse advanced dressage movements requires years of training and careful consideration of his balance, strength, suppleness, throughness, etc. Or, you know, go on a trail ride. This method is especially effective if you have an older, well-broke school master of a thoroughbred. One who is an arena flower to end all arena flowers, in fact.
For your first excursion on the trail, choose a sunny but windy day. The noise of the breeze through the leaves will terrify your arena flower relax the two of you the way those meditation CDs do. Ask for a calm, relaxed walk. With luck, what you will actually get will be a lovely passage. Stay relaxed and supple in the saddle, as at any moment the moving shadows may encourage your horse to attempt a half pass at the trot or canter.
Then turn a corner and find a moose blocking the road. You should experience, in succession: piaffe, a canter half-pirouette, and a marvelous extended canter. Do not attempt to maintain a strong contact here–this is the perfect time to return to basics and practice looping the rein at the horse to check his balance (think of all your hard work on those 20 meter stretchy circles!).
This is enough work for one day; you wouldn’t want to strain your horse with these new movements. Pick yourself up out of the gravel, dust yourself off, fetch your horse from the patch of grass he’s found to graze in, and head home.
When he’s had a few days to almost but not quite forget about the moose, recruit some friends to trail ride with you and view your horse’s new skills. Good riding partners: the green, just-broke mare, the “hottest” horse in the barn, and Spooks-At-Everything Dobbins. Gather together in the barn parking lot. As the other horses stand waiting for the signal to head out, your horse should begin demonstrating his new piaffe abilities.
As you walk out the farm gate, allow your horse to transition into passage. If he does not do this on his own, whisper “Moose” in his ear. You should feel an immediate elevation in his gait. When you are ready, encourage the other riders to trot. Your horse will begin practicing his collected canter. Stay loose in your seat and allow your legs to swing randomly; your horse may well begin showing off one-tempi changes. Reward him for his behavior–for example, as the riders in front of you begin to canter up a hill, you may wish to encourage your horse with a confident, “Ohmigod we’re going to diiiiieeeeeeeeee!” When you reach the top of the hill, he may be so proud of his accomplishment that he will again demonstrate airs above grounds.
As you’ve now demonstrated all his new movements, this would be a good time to collect your riding companions from the various ditches and hedges into which their excited horses have thrown them. If they seem inclined to grumble at you, point out the positive: their horses, too, show some talent at these advanced movements. Y’all will be showing Grand Prix by the end of the summer, for sure.
If, of course, you can catch your horses first.
I’ve Created a Monster
Remember when I said I wanted to make a stuffed horse? Remember how I made the Dammit Dolls instead, and decided it was a good thing I hadn’t done the stuffed horse because it would have been a disaster?
Well. I made a… disaster. Heh.
My first mistake was disregarding my own advice (to stay away from the stuffed horse idea).
My second mistake was deciding, at 3 a.m., that I could do a stuffed horse after all. At 3 a.m., my house mate would not be amused if I turned on the sewing machine… so that meant to do the stuffed horse, I’d have to hand sew it. That’s not a good idea, ever.
My third mistake was in improvising my own pattern. Including drawing the horse. An artist I am not.
My fourth mistake was in continuing to make the thing, even though the stitching was coming apart while I was still putting it together. Oy. How many hints to cease and desist does one person need?
So here it is, in all its glory horrificness:
I think it looks a bit like an anteater crossed with the Loch Ness Monster, don’t you? Or else it just really, really needs a stall break and a few minutes privacy.
Even though I’m laughing–this is truly awful, you know–I think the idea is sound:
If I can fix the anteater head, machine sew it so the stuffing isn’t leaking all over, and stuff it firmly enough that the legs will stay straight… it might actually look like a normal horse.
Meanwhile, the cats get this one. They’ll disembowel it and put it out of its misery, which is the kindest thing, really.
Ribbon Quilts: The Finished Products
This is what happens when I get bored in the middle of the summer and start asking questions like “How does one make a ribbon quilt, and can I do it?”
The large quilt is about 44×48 inches and has 115 or so printed ribbons in it (and various unprinted ribbons). The center block and the outer border are Zone and State awards and a few show Championships/Reserve Championships. The pattern is a modified Courthouse Steps.
The smaller quilt is about 18″ square and uses 19 printed ribbons (and various unprinted ribbons). The horse head is appliqued on–I sewed the brown ribbons together to make a block, cut out the shapes, and used iron-on fusion to hold them in place. Then I machine quilted with a zig-zag stitch over the edges of the applique. No seams to turn under or anything like that. Since the quilt is so small, I wanted to do something unique with it–hence the applique instead of a regular pattern.