Wrangler Dani

I have an irrational fear. I’m so afraid that I will have spent a great portion of my life and passions on something that I’m not good at and never will be. Some would be okay with that, but of course I have to make my very humanity into an identity crisis. Aren’t you glad you tuned in to this mess?

Tonight, I went riding at the ranch, and rode a horse I’ve never worked with or ridden before. He’s said to be a big teddy bear, but big is an understatement. He’s a tall, lanky, absolutely lovely Thoroughbred, but spirited enough that I was a bit nervous about trying him, especially since this is probably my last chance to practice before Big Scary Certification. I rode around the arena, did the full pattern – except the lope. I was never quite able to get Tahoe loping, as he continued to trot in a funny sideways shuffle, skitter sideways as thunder rumbled above us, and put his head down until my little cowgirl self was sure he was going to catapult me over his head in a rip-roaring buck.

I felt so embarrassed by my own fear, by my inability to take him in hand and just lope and go for it, the in that free-and-easy way that I know I used to do. I’ve always had this gnawing fear that I’ll have loved something or someone desperately – only to find, after years of devotion, that it doesn’t love me back. With Adam, he has proven to me over and over that I can’t be annoying enough to alienate him (though I’ve tried, I promise). I finally have someone whom I can love devotedly and feel the reverberations of that earth-shattering emotion without fearing that it will one day go forth and find nothing there to embrace.

But I tend to be achievement-focused, and in my life, in my doings, I am less sure. I get a casual rejection of a writing or design bid and start to wonder where my skills went. Who am I kidding? I’m not half the writer most of the Optimist staff was, and most of my designs would be mundane in the “real world”. I’m “hopelessly flawed” as Jo March said. I’m a weird mix of organized and passionate, horrible at putting clean laundry away but sincerely bugged by a messy house.

Tonight I just wanted to cry. Self-pity is a powerful thing, and it was easily overtaking me. I was sitting aboard this beautiful animal, a sunset and storm-clouds making for a perfect horizon, looking down at my awesome sport of a husband – but unable to see my blessings because I’d chosen to be shadowed by my imagined failures. It’s not that I can’t be better – more courageous or creative – but I’ve allowed myself to believe for too long that I am defined by my arbitrary successes and mistakes. Successes and mistakes that I have created out of thin air for my own misery.

I can’t really tie a pretty bow around this post and make it look like I’m OK. This is probably far too personal to be flinging out into the Interwebs anyway, but it’s late and just sort of happened. I can’t say that Jesus told me anything awesome while I was basket-casing it like a champ, or that suddenly I know longer worry or care about success. But I do know that I need to have perspective, and I know that one failed attempt at loping doesn’t forever erase me from cowgirl-dom. So, I guess that’s all I have for now. Goodnight, dear Void.