When telegraph lines first arrived in the Western US, Native Americans referred to them as singing wires - a description as poetic as it is accurate. The vibrating wires crossing deserts and prairies literally sang in the wind. They also sang metaphorically, transmitting information across vast distances much quicker than stage coaches or even Pony Express riders could - in minutes, compared to weeks. Their impact must have been similar to the arrival of the internet. Once these wires started singing, the world became a more connected place.
I think of those singing wires a lot when I hold a set of reins in my hands. Like telegraph wires carried information back and forth between Eastern cities and Western outposts, the reins carry information back and forth between my hands and the horse’s mouth. Sometimes, it’s clear and easy to understand both ways. Other times, it’s loud, rude commands from the rider, and cries of frustration from the horse. Sometimes, it’s vague small talk, delivered in an irritating whine. Sometimes, there’s static interference in the form of distraction. Sometimes, no one is listening. Sometimes, both parties talk past each other. Sometimes, the horse or (more often) the rider does not understand the language, or uses a different dialect. And sometimes, it’s great poetry - pure and simple, complex and nuanced, beautiful and full of meaning, all at the same time.
I don’t want to romanticize either type of singing wires. What flows through them was and is not always a force for good. Rein contact can be used in ways that have nothing to do with tactful communication and everything with brute strength. But when it feels right - when the conversation truly goes both ways, when words become songs, there is nothing better.
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