Back in the Saddle Again

I wake up smiling, happy to start my day. Then I remember - my father's dead. I feel the dreaded dark energy start to flow slowly from the top of my head into my heart, stomach, and down my legs. Crap. What do I do now? Some days it's just too impossible to take a shower, put on makeup AND get dressed. And to have to do the same thing EVERY DAY? C'mon - that's asking way too much. I just can't do it anymore. I can't do much of anything anymore. I should work on my two book projects. I should write in here. I should get a website up and running. I should return some phone calls. I should should should. And yet. And yet I can't do anything. So I mostly do nothing.

In 1994 I bought my beloved horse Vinny. He was a 20 year old thoroughbred, my guardian angel in a horse. But he was also very clumsy. I took him to the Badlands for a trail ride and we were heading up a slippery hill. The young girl in front of me stopped in the middle of the hill and asked if anyone could grab her sunglasses that had fallen off. Vinny lost his footing, and started sliding back down the hill. I frantically grabbed onto his mane, but that also pulled his head back, and he reared up on his hind legs and started falling backwards. Through some miracle I was able to rise up out of my saddle and jump off sideways, hitting my tailbone on a big rock but otherwise surviving.

Grabbing onto Vinny's tail I was able to walk up the hill with him helping him, but as soon as we got to the top of the hill the trail master said, "Get back up in the saddle." Hell no, I said. It's dangerous. I could feel the tingles of anxiety starting in my heart, spreading out to my stomach.

"If you don't get right back up now, you'll never get back up again," he said simply. I got back up, and started for camp. "Keep walking," he said. "Otherwise you'll stiffen up. Even if your back hurts, you have to keep going or you'll stop all together." Again I said hell no. But again he was right. If you stop moving you get more paralyzed, more stiff, and stay hurt.

So I sit here in my comfy CAbi double v neck and stretch white jeans and white Converse tennies. I've effectively dressed, but there will most certainly be no shower or makeup today. I'm still down in the dust, rubbing my bum because it's hit a rock. I don't want to do anything much but think about what just happened - it was difficult. It was scary. It shredded me. And now what?

What does it mean to get back into life's saddle again? Sometimes it seems like experiencing the death of a loved one is a great chance to reset, to look at your life and make any necessary changes. But I have to be gentle with myself. I look down at what I'm calling my Death Roll, that extra 10 pounds of fat that I've gained around my middle since Dad died. I could also call it my Special K roll, as that's mostly what I've eaten since Dad died. Whatever. I need to be gentle with myself - I may be in shock. I'm not sure.

I only know that I feel like I'm floating, not quite landed, not quite clear about my direction, and I'm longing to be up in that saddle, feeling my beloved Vinny beneath me, feeling us moving together down the trail, looking at the beautiful sky. I don't want to be dusty in the tumble weeds anymore, crying about what's just happened. So I ponder my next move - back into the saddle again. I may go listen to the song - I think it's a good one. Maybe not.