The Zen of Puttering at the Barn

 

In my early 20’s I worked at a horse farm. By “work” I mean hard physical labor for 8 hours a day. I cleaned 26 unmatted stalls, feed and watered 40 horses twice a day, swept the aisleway non-stop and raked up the outside areas. In the winter months I worked in all kinds of weather and had the added muscle building chores of cleaning out flooded stalls when the automatic waterer pipes burst, and digging trenches through the mud filled paddocks. I loved the work, but it was a “job” and I eventually moved on to a less physical, better paying jobs with career paths. Fast forward 20 plus years and it blows my mind that my favorite part of my day right now is the extra hour I spend at the barn after working with Joe. I make the time to clean his stall, sweep the aisleway, water the horses, pick up things that are out of place and rake anything that needs it. It’s become my “Zen time” and it takes me full circle to an experience that 20-year-old me couldn’t make sense of. A memory that I now can look at and say “ah, I get it now”.

20-year-old me had a goal each day at the barn, to get the hell out of there before the kids showed up. It was a busy show barn and the line of Chevy Suburbans started to roll in around 2:45pm. Years later I am more appreciative of the younger generation, but at the time with only a few years of age on them I wasn’t willing to work around them as they trashed my clean aisleway leaving piles of horse poop and hair behind. I seemed to remember some insecurity as well, most of these young ladies were planning for 4 year colleges, while I had the choice of working full time right out of high school. My drive to get out of the barn by a certain time was so strong that some days I would attempt to skip lunch, forgetting how large my calorie deficit was due to the physical labor. I learned the hard way to take a break and eat something, anything to keep the hypoglycemia attacks to a minimum. I didn’t view my work at the time as “Zen”, it was a means to an end. It was in the middle of one of those busy ‘get it done’ days that I came around the corner to see one of the adult armature horse owners, Phyliss picking up rocks in the arena. My poor 20 something brain locked up in confusion by what it saw.

Phyliss was a well-off lady in her 70’s. She had horses on her own property at home and boarded several other horses at different barns in the local community. At one point in her life she had owned and run one of the premier equestrian facilities in the Seattle area. Why was she picking up rocks in the arena? Had I done something wrong?  Did her horse get a stone bruise? Did we need to redo the footing?  I walked up to her as she carefully placed each rock in a bucket. “I can bring in a wheelbarrow and get those with a pitchfork for you!”, I stammered out “Oh, no, its no problem at all. I’m building a French drain at home and I needed more rocks, these are perfect!” Phyllis could afford to buy as many truckloads of rocks as she needed, and she could have them dropped off an installed on her property and even polished if she so desired. I couldn’t make sense of it, but in her 70’s she was still taking jumping and dressage lessons so I trusted that picking up rocks wouldn’t hurt her, and I let her be. I secretly hoped that no one else would show up at that barn that morning. I didn’t want to have to try to explain why she was out there picking up rocks on my watch.

That scene comes into my head often these days as I putter around the barn. Now at 46, I believe I understand what Phyllis was doing. Picking up those rocks in the arena was her “Zen time”. She picked up each one, evaluated it for her project and put those that passed her discerning eye into her bucket. She placed the rejects in a corner just outside the arena. While her slow methodical work resulted in less hoof bruises for all our horses and gave her free rocks for her French drain, it also provided her a chance to putter. She was able to do something that had no expectations attached it outside her own. If the rocks had been left there, no one would have been the wiser. I know my barn owner appreciates the extra work I do at the barn, she has let me know on many occasions, but at the same time the work isn’t expected of me. If I don’t sweep the aisleway tomorrow, no one is the wiser and it will get leaf blown when the stalls are cleaned later in the day. Sweeping the aisleway not only provides me with great upper body workout, it does wonders for my mental health. With each brush of the broom I push away mental cobwebs and make room for inspired creativity. Cleaning the floors at home doesn’t have the same effect, it doesn’t hold the same magic that comes through the barn aisleway. By cleaning my own horse’s stall, I become a better horseman. Each day I know how much time he spent outside in his paddock by the number of poop piles, I can observe any changes in his water consumption or eating habits. I do the best job on his stall that I can, sweeping bedding out of the corners and cleaning up the mess he makes under his water bucket. I empty his water buckets and give them a good scrubbing when needed. I don’t expect a discount on my board for the work, and I’m incredibly appreciative that my barn owner doesn’t mind my stepping in. When I bring Joe in from turnout and put him back into his stall, I admire my work. His room is clean with new bedding, a fresh pile of hay and topped off water buckets. I feel like I’ve been let in on a secret that Phyllis knew all along. Puttering in the barn is one of those cathartic tasks that offers a high level of immediate gratification where I can look back and see a job well done. The best part, the same mess is waiting for me again the next day.