Wrangler Dani

My horse had a crack in one of his feet recently. As a result, I was picking his hooves every day, going out with 10 minutes or less to check on his feet, 1,2,3,4, back on the road, zoom, zoom, whack, whack, done.

The thing is, Buzz has a mind of his own. He’s not always in the mood for a pedicure, and he is a frisky fella, especially in the cold. Sometimes he’d bounce to the side, or give a little buck before I caught him, or goof around with his feet, just to see what I would do. Sometimes I was in such a rush that I ran up to him like the predator I am, and his prey-brain reacted with a hearty and emphatic NOPE. I’ve been around horses most of my life, I should know the basics. I shouldn’t act threatening, or make simple routines rough, or rush my willing horse simply because my human timeline wants to save 30 seconds.

Finally I got the message: my job is to show up without an agenda. I can’t run into the pasture in a huff and expect a quality relationship with my horse. I can’t demand kindness from him while I barely scrape out civility, my mind elsewhere. I have to come to him with open hands, an open heart, a willingness to do the work before me. If it’s a warm, sweet fall day and he sleepily stands for me to pick his feet, that’s lovely. If it’s breezy and brisk and he’s jumpy and jubilant, and we need to burn some energy and establish some boundaries, that’s OK too. I need to come to my pasture like a yoga mat, like a practice, like a friendship – no expectations, just time.

Of course, I rarely come to anything with no expectations. I think my kids should be well-behaved and sleep all night, I think magazine editors should want my work, I think my body should be more beautiful, my house more clean. This fall we’ve had a broken dishwasher, septic tank problems, a predator kill a lamb, a scramble to find enough hay for the horses this winter, a continuing stack of magazine rejections that I hope I laugh at someday, but right now makes me want a nap or a scotch. I don’t want to show up for any of that, I’ll be honest. I want quick solutions. I want hay to appear, toilets to flush, dishes to clean, stories to sell. I don’t want the work. I yelled at Buzz, “just STAND STILL!” which, if you’re wondering, had the opposite effect. It’s sort of like when I lose patience with my kids and they fall apart in tears, which, in the ultimate grin from God, means even more patience is required.

I’m in the midst of the practice, the place where I can decide to roll up my mat and leave in a sweaty huff or breathe it out and let difficulty make me new, where I can either show up with palms upward or punch the air in futility. Rejections are hard, friends. Things break and I want to yell at them to JUST STAY TOGETHER, do you even KNOW how hard I’m trying right now?

But if I walk into the pasture with time to spend, Buzz makes his joyful prance over to me, and his little quirks are endearing instead of frustrating. I can spend the time needed to remind him of our ground-rules, and then he nuzzles my hand when we finish, happy in my company, because my company was happy. There is no win from rushing or striving. My angst will not get me published. My frustration does not inspire my children to obedience. My nagging does not put the pieces of our sagging farmhouse back together, but only pulls it apart more, as the quirks and charms of our little life get lost in the haze of discontentment.

Buzz taught me this. Every time he looks at me with those deep brown eyes, asking if I am willing to let him be himself, I’m reminded to give grace, to offer him time, space and safety. After all, isn’t that what we all want? Isn’t that what I hope my children feel in our home, what I hope friends experience from me? Safety and home aren’t made in accomplished lists. They aren’t created when everything goes to plan and everyone is on their best behavior. They come when we show up; walking out in any weather, with open hands and open hearts, ready to believe the best and work with the worst.