The first time I met Ernie Pepion, he was naked.

His bed was covered in sheepskins. Not because he was particularly sexy (though he would beg to differ), but because his circulation was poor and the sheepskins made the best padding. Bad circulation is a common trait of those with quadriplegia–any pressure on the skin causes bedsores.

I remember walking into his front door in the low income apartments on Grand Avenue, seeing him comfortably splayed on his belly like a misplaced playboy across white linens. The room was sunny and warm, as was he. Earnest. Polite. His name, as it stood on the plaque on the wall…Earnest Polite Pepion. I quickly learned that he was recovering from a long weekend in Vegas, his raw and wounded backside the result of a negligent caretaker.

The sores on his ass were the size of salad plates, carefully tended and dressed.

On that first day, I had to jump right in. Not an easy feat for someone who had always been exceptionally squeamish about blood and shit, but ya’ll know how I get about overcoming fear. Just do it. He chatted easily, laughed, pulled from a vast collection of jokes. He was difficult to understand, thanks to ill fitting dentures and a good healthy buzz, but engaging nonetheless.

He liked Johnny Cash. He was an old cowboy. He served two tours in Vietnam. Were he not in a fixed seated position, he would have been very, very tall. A good dancer, I’m sure.

These were things I knew within ten minutes of meeting him. He knew things about me too, how my mother was an artist and I aspired to be one as well, that I liked to drink, and I had no problem flirting mercilessly with old men.

We were instant friends.

For me, there’s no way to talk about volition, will, and the demonstration of personal power without talking about Ernie Pepion. It’s hard to even know where to begin, in fact.

One weekend in July, a hundred years ago it seems, Ernie and I found ourselves looking over the landscape up on his brother’s ranch near Browning, Montana. A place that looked to him the way this place looks to me. There are views held on this earth that are sacred simply out of connection, history. The place that feels like home, or maybe just the direction that points the way.

I asked if they’d teach me to ride, they said yes. Dale, his brother, disappeared for awhile after breakfast to saddle up the horses.

Well…

the horse.

Lemme tell ya … there’s not much that will drop kick your heart quicker than being an inexperienced rider who’s standing in front of a big ass horse, saddled up and ready to ride. Solo. One horse.

“Yeah. Hey. Ernie? I don’t know how to ride.”

“You’ll figure it out.”

I stared at him solid, this man who had broken his back in two places, while he swigged off of his modified coffee mug, smiled, and simply said,

“Saddle up.”

So I did.

Now I don’t know how much you know about horses, but allow me to tell you how much time it takes one to ascertain exactly how experienced you are.

About ten seconds.

Ten seconds into the view. Ten seconds of me, alone, jostling cautiously in the vast and rolling distance of the Northwestern Montana hills. A place where white girls are rarely met with anything less than brute hostility. I sat on top of a big black horse who, they assured me, was in a pretty good mood that day.  I can’t remember what he was called. I think it might have been Asshole because that’s what I yelled when he broke into a canter and leapt over a creek.

Yeah, he totally jumped it. And I almost fell.

I felt my body jar and two options came into view as I shifted back into place. I could fall off this horse or I could engage and take charge.

The rest became instinct. The weight of my body shifted, moved forward on my hips as I leaned into this massive animal’s center of gravity. Instantly, his warmth and breath came in tune with the motions of muscles encompassed by my legs. I gripped the reins like I meant it. There was no other choice.

Our surroundings were crystal clear. Instantly. Rocks. The wind. The way the clouds hung low over the ridge of the green, green grass on the mountainside.

Repetitions of stories my uncle told of his most prized-yet-spirited hunting companion surfaced quickly — make him stop. Back him up. Turn in a circle. Right, then left. Then move forward, take charge, lean in and feel the strength, the energy, the force beneath.  Direct it. Do it. Either work with it, fall, or get down and give up. That was the choice.

Back to Chakras

When you feel your stomach drop, that’s your third chakra. That pit of butterflies means you’re losing power. The sinking feeling in your gut. The way your insides leap to your throat when you nearly fall off a horse, alone in the middle of the Reservation.

When your third chakra is in tune and balanced, you feel powerful, transformed. This is your epicenter of confidence and vitality. The part that makes you feel like you can do anything.

And Back to Girls

I know it’s been awhile, so I’ll remind you:  the reason your girl does yoga is to center herself. To find balance. To create kindness within, to make room for acceptance of mistakes. If she isn’t centered, she’s finding the power from outside. She’s letting the horse drive, so to speak. Since we live in a culture that encourages passivity and taking a personal hit in the name of cooperation, this can be a tough one to overcome.

Women are taught to allow men to lead them. To obey their every whim, chase impossibilities of perfection both physically and emotionally. Some men prey on this vulnerability. Demand too much without reciprocation. And some women think this is what men want.

What’s the image that comes to mind when you think of enjoying a woman dance?

Pause.

Think.

Was she dancing alone? And was she taking off her clothes?

Get to the mat.

Strong women need strong partners. It’s why I like old cowboys. They took the time to learn how to dance (stick with it until 1:31, you’ll like it).

They know how to lead a woman right.

To move with strength, direction, a solid place to land. Old cowboys (and I’ve met old cowboys who are 25 – it has nothing to do with experience or age) intuitively know how to put a woman on display in a way that brings out the deepest of her beauty. There’s no substitute for that.

Imbalances of the Third Chakra

You know what a horse likes to do when it’s not being put to use?

It likes to eat.

This one’s easy. You can literally see the relationship a person has with their third chakra. Round in the middle? Looking for power outside of herself. Obsessive about a six pack or every little thing she eats? Watch for her to inflict her will on you. That’s right. Control you.

Simple Meditations for Dudes

Do sit ups.

Sun Salutations – every single day. Not tough enough? Throw some push-ups in there.

Breath of Fire

Yoga With Your Girl

Dance with her. With her.

Bust out with a horseback ride.

Yee haw, ya’ll.

So this is pretty much what the Kindle book will be like. You know, the one I’m writing? Yeah, that one.

Sign up here before I’m done with the series to get a free copy, yo.