Speaking without Words by Irena Szirtes

          The day dawned with seductive normality, but set on tearing heartbreak.  As Tilly passed, a five-year window of sweet unexpected connection passed too. She was my first, my only, my heart horse.  As I cradled her head, soft eye-light stilled and I thought of my Grandad. How had he endured this agony again and again?   

   “A fine horseman, steady and trustworthy.” Those words, hand-written on his WW1 discharge papers, had provoked and captivated me.  A fine horseman: not someone who just fed, groomed and rode; horses trusted him, he calmed them as they hauled gun carriages to battle, and grieved if he had to fire the final merciful bullet. As soon as I knew Tilly was mine, my first thought was Grandad. He died too young, and I only ever met him as he walked -or rode- through Mum’s memories.          

 “Handsome brute, isn't he?” he had written on the back of her favourite photograph, “The horse I mean!”.   Yet I didn't aspire to his fine horsemanship. The years had taken their toll; I found myself surprisingly tentative around horses, and riding skills were rusty.   

   “Hack out and drink coffee.... that will do me,” I told them at the livery yard.  I was convinced, in my sixties, that anything more was out of reach. But then came the change that rocked my cautious world.

     “Do you ride much, or is she just a pet?” The therapist had come to see why Tilly had begun objecting to her saddle. She swiftly diagnosed the failing back of a one-time Connemara brood mare.  Hack out and drink coffee? Gone. I wasn't quite sure what to do, but I was sure my friendship with Tilly was more important than hacking. She had always been inclined to jog home from a ride, and deep down that bothered me: did she really enjoy our time together? A memory from long ago, whispering through my unconscious, began gathering crescendo. At sixteen I never doubted my affinity with horses.  When asked to be the first rider for L’eau-l'eau, a favourite on the stud where I helped, I climbed on. There was no tack; I can still savour her scent and wiry mane, light grease on my fingers, the rhythm of her willowy shoulders. The merest thought of moving forward sent her on her way, the merest thought of stopping brought her beautifully to a halt. I had long ago shelved such effortless connection as a one-time fluke.  Was there any hope Tilly and I could find it? That small hope was the catalyst for attempted liberty work. Deep down I felt inadequate and did not believe Tilly was interested.  It took time to realise I was wrong. She was ready to hook up, but waiting for me to enter her quiet world where speaking was without words. While she was fluent in equi-speak and read me effortlessly, I took time to understand the messages flittering through her body, or flickering in her eye.  I might have given up if I hadn't found being still.

        I had forgotten a place I occupied as a child, the place where horses live. There past and future are irrelevant, and time is always fixed in an eternal now. In this still place connection is easy, and Tilly seemed to say, “Ah there you are! At last!”  Being still with Tilly grew out of non-demand time each morning. She enjoyed a hay net while I mucked out, prepared feed and enjoyed her company. Sometimes I would sit close by on a stool, and noticed my rest piqued her interest. Eventually we began to cultivate still times as part of our liberty sessions. As I learned to slow down and quiet my heart, I began to join Tilly in her eternal now. It took practice. Surreptitious thoughts would break and enter, intending to burgle away all quietness. What should I cook? Did I really forget that birthday? Do I need fuel? At last, I learned to lock out those thieving thoughts and Tilly knew it.  Precious moments of deep connection, in mutual stillness, changed both of us. In this slow-motion world I could hear her breath, or the swishing of her tail. She began to fix her attention on me, aware I was a stranger in her world. A new calm pervaded our everyday activities. I began to hear her unshod footfall as I led her out, distant birdsong or the munching of grass nearby.  Our times at liberty became more synchronized: intent became our sole signal as we began to walk, stop, trot and turn in perfect unison. We were speaking to each other without words. It felt magical.

           Magical or not, I soon learned to adapt my goals, for Tilly could be many different ponies.  She was daring and wild, a waterfall of energy, or elegance itself, undoubtedly Araby: with no hope of matching these energetic bursts I would dizzily ask her to circle again and again. Perhaps she was calm and compliant, uppity and tetchy, playful or preoccupied.  Preoccupied could mean a herd member in trouble: she once shadowed another mare, who had lost her foal, for three whole weeks.  She was uptight flighty as Storm Doris raged, cheeky when obstacles lost their terror. I would often try spreading the tarpaulin while she danced on it, as if to say “See? this just isn't scary any more ".

             Whatever her mood, Tilly would honour our still-place connection. If I grew tired and fell behind, she would pause and wait; if I sat on the mounting block with coffee, she would join me and urge me to re-engage. When Spring grass revved her up, or hormones spiked irritability, it felt all the more special when she moved with me at liberty. She would even stay in step if I dragged the tarpaulin or twirled the umbrella, with just a little more distance between us. Connection was strongest when stillness awoke long forgotten feelings: a little girl's joyous awe in the presence of a horse, or freedom like euphoria on Summer Holiday eve. Tilly found such novel happiness irresistible and would draw close, walking with her head over my shoulder, even when I thought our session was over. The lighter my mood, the more easily she conquered obstacles: the pedestal, the golf umbrella, cones or narrow spaces. Sometimes I longed to climb on bareback, as I had with L'eau-l'eau all those years ago: I’m sure we could have shared the same sweet synergy.  But, afraid of damaging her back even more, I never did.

          Did all this help me feel connection with Grandad? Yes, and I hope it would have brought him pleasure. Did I approach his level of horsemanship? I think not, but I found a starting place, and discovered that the more I knew, the more there was to know, and that I’ve barely left the starting blocks. That's fine, because Grandad had another legacy to share, the importance of an open mind. When I met Monty Roberts at an I.H. Demo, he told me I was “just a baby" and he meant the same thing: it’s never too late to learn, however old we think we are. To hack out and drink coffee was good, but I’m glad I got expelled from my comfort zone.

               Of course, Tilly had a huge part to play: she was an exceptional pony. It amazed me how she bore with my early fumbling attempts at liberty, grasped what I wanted, then somehow taught me.  The day Tilly died brought a poignant reminder of the bond we shared. The vet came out early, but I couldn't reach the yard until the few crucial hours, allocated for treatments, were almost over.  She was still on her feet, but had held on just for me, and went down shortly after my arrival. When the vet returned, she had already slipped away as I sat caressing her face. I may not have felt her loss so keenly had we not shared times of synchronicity, and the almost invisible language without words. I might have hurt less if we hadn't experienced stillness, the sheer joy of touching each other’s worlds. But I am absolutely certain of this: I would have regretted it more.