I was sitting here thinking this: I've lived so many different lives. I've been a horse trainer, a writer, a speaker, a yoga teacher, a musician, a music writer, a limousine girl, a homeless wreck, and more, and then there were the times when I felt like I was just "existing," when I was in between, when I was searching, when I was calling out to hawks or horses or God, if you will, for some sense of direction. Sooner or later, it always happened. Sometimes, direction didn't appear clearly though. Rather, more often than not, it rolled in rather messily.
But when I think about the moments I loved the most, I don't think of winning at horse shows. I think of watching the horses running free in the fields. I don't think of big rock shows; I think of taking a walk with one musician that I deeply loved. I don't think of selling books; I think of one day when a girl told me my book helped her stay sober. And I think of the kids I taught how to ride, and the way that I usually liked the most "difficult" ones, the troublemakers, yeah. I think of A., who played guitar with me in Seattle and helped me stay alive, when I was nothing but a hopeless case. I think of the other A., who took me strawberry picking when I was so ill, and I couldn't remember how to smile. He did it for me. He carried me.
These days, laughter is divine to me. So is stretching, learning new things, and realizing when I've fucked up, trying to face the fear and do things differently. But all in all, it's the small things that still touch me -- someone's sharp, black-rimmed glasses, a 6' man who knows how to give the perfect hug, even to someone like me, who isn't a big hugger, the tree on the trail that's shaped like a "4," a long walk, learning how to put on eye shadow at 42. The little things. Hell, maybe they're everything.
But when I think about the moments I loved the most, I don't think of winning at horse shows. I think of watching the horses running free in the fields. I don't think of big rock shows; I think of taking a walk with one musician that I deeply loved. I don't think of selling books; I think of one day when a girl told me my book helped her stay sober. And I think of the kids I taught how to ride, and the way that I usually liked the most "difficult" ones, the troublemakers, yeah. I think of A., who played guitar with me in Seattle and helped me stay alive, when I was nothing but a hopeless case. I think of the other A., who took me strawberry picking when I was so ill, and I couldn't remember how to smile. He did it for me. He carried me.These days, laughter is divine to me. So is stretching, learning new things, and realizing when I've fucked up, trying to face the fear and do things differently. But all in all, it's the small things that still touch me -- someone's sharp, black-rimmed glasses, a 6' man who knows how to give the perfect hug, even to someone like me, who isn't a big hugger, the tree on the trail that's shaped like a "4," a long walk, learning how to put on eye shadow at 42. The little things. Hell, maybe they're everything.
I've spent a lot of my life looking for the "perfect fit" in relationships, in jobs, in life in general. But here's how I see it now -- the beauty rests within the imperfections.
That is love.
C.A. MacConnell
