Prayer Request

Last night, I got kidnapped.
I was trapped
inside a hot

sanctuary.
I was shifty
in the church pew –
a cramped place
I have never called home.

Last night, I got lucky.
I discovered
a blank stack

of prayer request paper.
Three by five,
I drew you wearing suns.
I’ve never seen you like this,
but that's the way I always

picture you.
I drew me next to you.
I was reaching

for your middle.
I drew a taller me –
wild-haired,
stick hands nearly touching
the place where your belt

should be.
My fingers got lost
between your loops.

I've never seen me like this,
but the pencil made me
a lead-grey, dipping,
V-necked dress.
Your mouth

was a line.
My mouth
was a circle.

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Wolf.

 

Heya. Working on a little comedy piece for you...the snow is melting, thank god. I'm so ready for warmth. Hope you like the shot.

C.A. MacConnell

Panic in the Show Ring: Take it Easy

When I was 16, I was at Turfway Park in Kentucky, showing my horse in the Junior division, and I was extremely nervous, because it was an A-show, and it was my first time showing the 3'6" jumps at a big, rated show. Well, before our rock star moment in the show ring, I had accomplished all of this:  gotten up at 5 a.m. or so to braid my horse, cleaned his stall and some others, gave him a bath, cleaned my tack, and the list went on and on. I was never one of those riders who merely showed up to ride. I had to do everything myself to save on the bucks. I'd been doing it that gritty way since I was 10 years old.

Well, the day was a scorcher. I was sweating through my breeches and coat, and I felt nauseous, but our warmup rounds went all right. Not perfect, but not too shabby. I was simply glad to get through it. When it came time to do my first Junior round, we cantered into the ring, started our courtesy circle like always, and everything seemed to be pretty normal, but as we were on our way to the first jump, something happened to me...

I froze. Completely, I froze. After years of practicing vigorously, I couldn't remember the course or how to ride at all. I stopped steering. I took my leg off. I totally stopped riding. Underneath me, I could feel my horse thinking this, Uh, which way? What's going on here? So eventually, he just did the smart thing -- he stopped dead in the middle of the ring. No, he didn't stop right in front of the jump. Oh no. Instead, he stopped long before the first jump. Frozen in the sand, we just stood there, motionless for many minutes I suppose, but it seemed like hours.

My loving, dutiful horse just stood there, waiting for me to do something.

I didn't do anything at all.

So, with loads of people watching, we both continued to freeze solid in the show ring.

Eventually, I came to, and I steered him around, and we slowly walked out of the ring.

Scratching his head, my trainer sauntered over to me and said, "What the hell happened? It's like you just stopped riding."

"I don't know," I said, looking down, tearing up some. And I didn't know. "I guess I spaced out," I said. I shrugged.

My trainer shrugged.

Later, I practiced some more and did the rest of my rounds, and for some odd reason, I ended up winning a few classes, so I suppose I redeemed myself. That's often how it went for me; it was tragic, or I won.

But that first class really spooked me. For a moment, I lost all sense of place and time. And looking back on it, I think it was this:  I was exhausted. I was trying to make it through college prep classes in high school. I was taking care of my horse and training daily. I was working a part-time job. And in all of these activities, I was trying to be the epitome of perfection. At a certain point, my body just gave in. Certainly, I needed a break. My brain went ahead a took a break without my permission.

This morning, I thought of this time in my life, because I was musing about how I'm too hard on myself in general. This year has been so unbelievably tough for me...and for so many...and yet I've still been beating myself up, telling myself I haven't done enough, that I'm not where I should be. But I have honestly faced so much, and I still managed to write another book. And I still managed to send that book to some agents. And I still stayed sober and handled my outside illnesses the best that I could. Indeed, I should be proud, not down about my place in life. 

I should celebrate the victories.

Instead of focusing on the time I "froze up" riding, I should focus on the rest of that day, when I won some classes. I'm not sure where I learned the art of "beating myself up," but whoever taught me did a bang-up job.

Sometimes I get focused on others' outsides -- someone's beautiful children, fancy house, hot boyfriend or girlfriend, fame, celebrity power, beautiful skin, and on and on. But those are just snapshots of the winnings. I guarantee that everyone around me has felt the same exhaustion of trying to be perfect. I'm certain they've all felt those moments when they absolutely panicked and forgot how to do something that would normally be routine, or spaced out, or woke up and thought, If only I had her life. If only I had his life. If only I could take a break. If only I could win every time.

Take it easy today. It's been a horrendous year for so many. Focus on the victories, however large or small. We all deserve it. I am here to say this:  forget about beating the self up for the things that haven't come to pass. Instead, I've decided I need to take a look at how far I've come. Here's why...

If I'm in a place of wanting, I can't give. If I'm in a place of contentment, I can be of service. See, I could focus on the pain I'm feeling from this extracted tooth, or I could focus on my ability to write this piece today. I'm doing the best I can. Remember, those around are doing the same. My horse loved me unconditionally. When I made a mistake, he held no grudges.

If I could go back to that horse show, I'd hug my teenage self. I would whisper in her ear, You are good enough, just how you are. You are a fighter. You work so hard for your dreams. You are full of integrity and passion, and one panic attack in the show ring could never take that away. It's OK to lose your shit and begin again. You are loved, unconditionally.

It's OK to lose your shit and begin again. Celebrate the victories. Be easy. Be proud.

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Conductor

C.A. MacConnell

Photos: Graveyard Walk.

 

C.A. MacConnell

Poem: Hollywood Morning

A piece from a while back. I'm working on a new one as well...but I'm taking my time with it. I have loads of poetry. If anyone ever wants to use them as songs, I'd be thrilled. Contact me at camacconnell at gmail dot com if you're interested. I sure could use a break! I have hundreds and hundreds of poems that could be songs. I could write lyrics all day long...this shit pours outta me, ha. Going to the movies tonight. So stoked. <3 Anyway, hope you are warm and safe, and I hope you enjoy the piece. Love, C.A.

Hollywood Morning

1
Around eleven a.m., she rises,
leaving the covers. Right on
schedule, she creeps away
to the kitchen. First time
making pancakes. Wrapped
up tight, he is still half-

2
awake, bedroom resting.
He hears the batter hit
the frying pan. He hears
her swear at the spill.
He hears the hot surface
spit and settle. He smells
the slight, accidental burn.

3
Soon, he stretches, facing
her buttered meal, her test,
her syrup, her small spoons
and dull forks, and under
the blinding table lights,
they echo-chew. Sometimes,

4
fights happen. Voices carry
over hardwood floors,
but after the silence, later,
someone or the world
gives in. Pulling his robe
close, he thinks hard-fast,
trying to focus, bringing back

5
details. Last night, she whitened
her teeth and slept like a baby.
Garbage night. Like always,
when she rested her head
on the pillow, he kissed her
first. He is the quiet type.

C.A. MacConnell

 

Photo: Girl, Cayman Islands.

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Log Cabin.

 

From the Shawnee Lookout State Park Website:  "The Log Cabin, build 1795-1805, was originally located in Elizabethtown, Ohio until 1971, when Whitewater Township donated the log cabin to Great Parks."

Bet there are some stories inside here...

C.A. MacConnell

Getting Lost...or Found?

I often get lost. Mainly when I'm walking, or when I'm inside buildings and houses. Small, large, you name it. See, when I visit a friend's house, when it's time to leave, I might forget where the exit is. Usually, I try to see which way someone is leaning so that I can follow the clue/hint toward the exit hall or door. If they don't lean, I keep talking nonsense until some person begins to walk a certain direction, giving me the "go-ahead." Or I shuffle and watch how they act. Do they widen their eyes, which means, Where are you going? Or do they just step forward, relaxed.

It's a maddening game.

I hate, hate to ask. That's what makes me panic -- not the lost part, but the fear that I may have to ask.

If I enter a building from a different direction, I have trouble understanding where the stairs are, and I always have difficulty finding the right room. If I'm at a party and someone tells me where the bathroom is, I may end up in the closet, or I may forget the way back. I get distracted, or I notice a collection of dog figurines, or I see a cool painting, or I stop to visit with the cat, dog, plant, hall mirror, and bobble head collection. Any number of things can take the "directions map" right out of my brain. So I listen for the noise, the rumble of voices, to find the way back. That's usually the ticket.

When I'm driving, I usually have a good sense, unless I'm thinking about true love, and then I just might pass my exit and end up taking the LONG WAY somewhere. But I always get where I need to be, and truly, GPS comes in handy nowadays. Back in the day, it was every man/woman for him/herself. Meaning, my road trips were often exceptional.

When I was very little, I was spending the night at a friend's house, and I got up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, and I had no idea how to get back to her room, so I just started wandering around the house. I guess I made some racket, because the friend's mom finally found me in some corridor, and she said, "What are you doing? Go back to bed." I remember thinking, Right, I'd really like to. I just stared at her, not moving. Finally, my friend's mom shook her head and took my hand, leading me back to the right room. Crawling in my sleeping bag, I felt so defeated that I was "caught lost."

I distinctly remember how much I wanted to figure it all out on my own.

When I was in high school, I was a brief member of the cross-country team. But one day, when we were supposed to run five miles, I got lost and ended up running eight, and I was still going until I finally flagged down some random car to take me back to school. That's right, a random person. In the bathtub that night, I decided that eight miles and directions were too much trouble, so I quit the team, but the real reason I quit was this: the whole time I ran, I thought about the horses I should be riding, and I wanted to focus on that sport, not the running. So I did.

So I get lost when I'm anxious, bored, distracted by visuals, or when I want to be somewhere else or be with someone else. It's like my body is saying, No, you are not going the right way, and you are not in the right place, go over here. Or, it's this: you are not with the right person. Most of the time, it's really this: I get lost because I'm attuned to the scene around me, and I'm musing about something to write. I see the pictures and stories in things.

I see the whole damn movie sometimes.

I guess when I'm supposed to be paying attention to routes and maps, I think about the sadness in someone's eyes, the unique shade of a woman's hair, the man in the coveralls at the park, the glass earrings I just bought, the brown-eyed boy I once met in Blacksburg, one of my old professors, how I want some gum, my grocery list, the next step for book four. At exit three, my exit, I might think this: I wonder how I'd look with a septum piercing and Mohawk. By the time I'm at exit five, I've decided to do the piercing, but then I think it might be better to put the money toward tattoos. And then I realize I'm too broke for bodily mutilation, damn.

Maybe being lost isn't being lost at all. Maybe it's about becoming "found." Through someone's help or a divine act of Providence, I always end up where I need to be. Maybe not where I'm supposed to be, but I end up where I need to be. Maybe "winning" or being on the "right path" aren't all they're cracked up to be.

Maybe it's the ridiculous route of trying that matters.

C.A. MacConnell