When I was a kid, my mother did something clever, and I’m forever grateful. I wanted to learn to play the piano, and she decided to give me two teachers. Every week, I'd attend two different styles of lessons.

The first was a method called Suzuki. It’s a way of feeling for the piano keys. Each finger, through repetition, would learn to elegantly stroke the key. I remember my teacher would put a tissue paper on the keyboard, and I'd have to touch the key softly enough to hear the note while lifting the tissue. It required finesse, feel, balance. It taught me to artistically play an entire song with heart and soul — instead of pounding the keys like a Whac-A-Mole game.

The next lesson, later in the week, was exactly the opposite. It was a Whac-A-Mole game. I learned note placement from page to keys. I sounded like a toddler guessing and banging around the keys until the right sounds came out. There was no feel — and my teacher knew it. In fact, it was intentional.

Both teachers were kind, encouraging, and repetitive in their practice. Each had their own style, and each had their special value.

I'm grateful I got that experience so early because many people never do. Most people learn from one trainer. One style. One method. And they often become religious in their views about how a thing is supposed to be done.

In the horse industry, I see this every day.

I see trainers bring mechanical techniques to the forefront, asking their students (horse or human) to move about like pieces on a chessboard.

And the next day, I meet trainers who are less concerned with the path and more tuned in to the feel — the footfalls, the rhythm of the breath, the softness in the expression, the bond, the connection, the heart and soul.

The question (trick question, really) is: Which one is better?

And the answer, as you can probably guess, is... both.

Each has its value. Each has its place.

Art and mechanics must meet at some point — and when they do, magic happens.

As a mastery trainer, I work to integrate both. I teach mechanics and basics — rider position, horse position, snappiness, responsiveness.

And then, I step back and teach it all again — this time adding feel, finesse, heart, connection, and the special bond that only comes through real understanding.

My mother gave me that gift through those piano lessons. And I owe her even more, because those lessons crossover into life as much as they do into horses.

Next time you're in a lesson — or teaching one — remember this story.

Remember the value of both.

Remember that a rose has a stem with thorns and a flower with petals. Both are integrated. Both are right. Both are important.

Learn from the lessons you get — and add to them.

Don't run from one method to another.

Don't throw one out to adopt another.

Keep them all. All your lessons.

And gradually, find the space where art and mechanics meet.

Where finesse and fundamentals marry.

That’s where the magic really is.

Thanks for reading. Don

If you want more, join me on this journey.

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