By Madronna Holden
Why should we call our bad dreams nightmares?
In The White Goddess, Robert Graves related an ancient story from the British Isles that tells how– after men captured wild mares and kept them in stalls and bred them at their whim– the Night Mare visited these men’s dreams with her long teeth and punishing hooves.
As a girl, my family once had a mare who was a nightmare for a man who wished to control her, a huge thoroughbred with her ancestral wildness still in her. Since we were moving two thousand miles away, we sold the mare to a man who wanted to train her as a jumper. But I got a phone call from him complaining she was unrideable.
I went immediately to the stable and the ring—the like of which the mare had never seen—to show just how well she handled. I let her reins go slack as she read my body, turning on a dime and cantering like a dream.
As I slipped off her back, the trainer drawled, “No offense, but you can make that mare look like an old plug”.
That odd complement was centered in the Western worldview: the idea that I was a good rider because I made that mare look so tame. I knew this man was wrong. I didn’t do it. The mare did– as many other examples in the Tao of Equus demonstrate other horses as doing.
Though this mare would do anything you asked her to do if you asked properly, she refused to be manhandled. She broke my heart with her grace that last time I rode her. I hope she somehow understood it was out of my hands to let her go—and that she taught her new “owner” something about getting along with the world larger than himself. In this case, about 2000 pounds larger.
After all, it was the job of mares to socialize others in their wild herds.
There is danger involved in assuming that such creatures are at our service just because we purchase them– as this man found out. And as we ourselves find out in our attempt to control the natural world with inappropriate technological development– though we still try.
As illustrated in Stanley Kubrick’s classic film 2001: A Space Odyssey, we and our technology inevitably shape one another. Human life in the machine age has become increasingly mechanistic even as we project our own psyches onto our machines. Advertisers know this as they sell trucks with the not so subtle claim that they will increase the masculinity of their drivers.
But the understanding of our psychological entanglement with our technology is not complete if it stops and starts at the human psyche. There is something else to consider: we are not alone in the world. Domestication does not merely shape our consciousness. It is about the relationship between human consciousness and other natural life.
Such lives cannot be simply reduced to the energy we measure as the “horsepower” of our machines. Different cultures have very different ideas of domestication than the contemporary industrial impulse to count “horsepower” as force harnessed on our behalf.
Indigenous peoples in Western Washington very much valued the horses introduced into their territory after the coming of whites to this continent. They loved to race them and sometimes, to travel with them—though canoes made better vehicles of transport on landscapes so crossed with rivers. Horses were more useful for travel in the open areas across the Cascades and along the Columbia River.
Stories from pioneer families I gathered in Western Washington record astonishment at how an Indian might labor for months to obtain a horse he favored from a white family—but then never keep that animal under fence. One Indian man explained that if the horse came back after he turned it loose, that was great–and if it didn’t—well, it had a life of its own.
At the Walla Walla treaty proceedings in the mid-nineteenth century, the Nez Perce entered with a display of horsemanship that left the US cavalry in a state of wonder, as reported by a cavalry lieutenant who observed it. But he also wondered at the fact that those who rode such magnificent mounts let them graze the open prairie without any human restraint.
Local native people on the Oregon coast indicated their attitude toward horses in their lack of bridles and reins. Coquille elder George Wasson came to speak in my Linfield College class shortly after the film Dances with Wolves was released. He pointed out the glaring cultural misstep in this film in the portrayal of Indian riders as using bridles.
Norman Dick was a pioneer child whom Siuslaw man Andrew Charles sat in front of him on his horse and took for long rides. The Indian man used his arms to hold the toddler securely, since he rode his horse “Indian style”– without reins.
There is an essential lesson in the attitude toward “horsepower” that does not forget that there is a life behind it —a life that is more than the harnessing of it for human purposes. It is better to cooperate with such life than fight its rebellion.
To try to “break” any other life for our use, as the old West terminology has it., is bound to cause us problems. We may try to “break” a horse—or a cow that stands unmoving in a milking stall all day given hormones and antibiotics to keep it alive and maximally producing– or a plant that is genetically engineered to rein in its DNA to our use. But there are results that are not predicted by those whose vision of natural life starts and stops in the barn or the laboratory—or the pocketbook.
There is mad cow disease that results from feeding these captured cows rendered brain and spinal cords from other mammals. There is the spontaneous migration of genes between plants over unforeseeable distances in a process we have no idea how to accurately predict, much less control.
Natural life may shrug us off its back as easily as it slips houses down the hill below a clear cut—as has happened throughout the lower Umpqua River drainage.
The genetics of plants is better observed by those who, like Barbara McClintock, derive their insight from speaking with the corn. Though her findings eventually won her the Nobel Prize, she could not find funding or professional placement for decades. As both a woman and a scientist with this novel approach, she struggled to do her work in isolation until her colleagues finally recognized the importance of her finding.
Such scientists have much in common with traditional farmers all over the world– like the Czech farmer (her grandfather) my student Iveta Habartova eloquently describes:
“My grandpa knew every branch and every tree so intimately; he spoke to the trees. He always told me that he had to talk to the trees to give them love so that they would grow well. Every time I entered my grandpa’s orchard, it was like entering a church. It was where all the wisdom, love and years of experience that my grandpa collected were kept. It was where he shared all those things with me. “
This is a profound expression of Wendell Berry‘s “agrarian mind” and its intimacy with the land–and contrast with industrial farming.
Domestication in its root means to bring something into our home with us: to make it a part of our family. As opposed to Monsanto’s battle for secrecy to prevent its agricultural products from being labeled for their consumers, caring for a Palestinian olive tree is a public affair, whose care is inherited by particular family members, and whose harvest is undertaken by a whole community.
During the year I lived and taught under Israeli Occupation, I once had dinner with a Palestinian family who used traditional methods of grafting to turn less than an acre into a garden overflowing with abundance. As I sat in the shade of the trees this family cared for with such tenderness, I was for the moment sheltered from the winds of violence that blew all about us on this land.
This is certainly a profound lesson of appropriate domestication: if we tend the land, it will shelter us.
And it will teach us about the vital processes of natural life.
If we learn to “domesticate” with integrity as we bring other natural life into our homes and hearts, we might also learn to treat other natural life—including humans—with respect, tenderness and generosity.
It is certainly past time to turn our technological nightmares into these better dreams.
I have received many wonderful comments since this essay was recently published, but I wanted to call reader’s attention to this one in particular from my student Susan Riley:
“Like Iveta’s grandfather, my grandmother treated her plants and livestock as reverently as she did her family. I distinctly remember her talking to her pansies, cupping them in her old weathered hand and telling them how beautiful their ‘faces’ were. Of course we laughed and thought she was being eccentric (heading toward senile) but no one could deny, that woman could charm a stick into growing into a beautiful, productive tree. Grandma’s chickens and her one old cow also got the best of care and attention and gave her eggs and milk long after what might be considered ‘normal’. Mostly I remember her wonderful vegetable garden. She had to share with the deer that wandered freely through her property but always managed a bumper crop of peas, cucumbers, tomatoes and zucchini. Nothing has or ever will, I think, tasted as good as grandma’s fresh spring peas creamed with Betsy’s fresh whole milk. While I’m sure Grandma felt she owned her property and animals, I’m also sure she considered that ownership more of a caretaker position than one of domination over the land and livestock. From her we learned to appreciate and respect even the smallest of creatures and we learned to talk to the pansies.”
Filed under: Animals, Contrasting worldviews, Ecofeminism, Environmental ethics, environmental philosophy, Environmental psychology, Ethics, Folklore and Oral Tradition, Forest and farm, Indigenous links, Land use, worldviews | Tagged: agrarian mind, domestication, Environmental ethics, horses, indigenous environmental values |