Perfect Fit.

Just put this together right now. Hope it makes your heart sing. <3 to you. C.A.

Perfect Fit

I've already lived numerous different lives. Not in any particular order, I've been a horse trainer, a writer, a speaker, a yoga teacher, a musician, a music writer, a limousine “go-fer,” a homeless wreck, a drunk, a Catholic school girl, a barista, a shit-shoveler, an editor, a caregiver, a mentor, a nudist, a failed hippie (I hated The Dead and weed), a patient, and more. And then there were other times when I was sick or lost, and I felt like I was merely "existing," when I was “in between.” Maybe I called out to hawks, horses, or the Universe for some sense of direction.

Quiet.

Days became weeks. One morning, I’d put on my horse boots. Another, I’d slip into my yoga pants. Skate shoes? A flannel? Nothing felt right. I’d cut my hair, dye it black or red, or not. Maybe another tattoo, a piercing. Still, the world was weird. Summer bled into autumn, winter, spring, and it all seemed to run together, whether I was clad in shorts, windbreakers, or sweaters. Around me, others seemed to be wearing suits, aprons, or fluorescent orange, steadily keeping time with their focused schedules.

But then, maybe the car died, and after some service and random conversations, I suddenly became the “car dealership worker.” Sooner or later, something always happened. Sometimes, direction didn't appear clearly.

Rather, it rolled in messily.

But indeed, it rolled in.

But as for my place in the totality of things, when I think about the moments that I loved the most, achievements don’t spring to mind. I don’t think about winning ribbons at horse shows, but I miss watching the horses canter across the fields. I don't reminisce much about the joy of “being in the Pit” or hanging out backstage at rock shows; I think of taking a walk with one musician who I deeply loved. As for selling books…sure, I need to get by, but what I cherish the most are the times when people tell me that my words touched them, or helped them stay sober, tune out the world, or feel deeply.

And when I remember my riding students, the kids who stand out are the most "difficult" ones – the girl with ADHD, the tiny, talented one who cried every lesson, and the troublemakers, yes. In 1996-7, I won a slew of writing awards, but not much later, A. played guitar with me in Seattle and helped me stay alive, when I was nothing but a hopeless case. And there was the other A., a patient like me. In 1999, he took me strawberry picking when I was so ill, I couldn't even remember how to smile, eat, or blink. He smiled for me. He carried me. And he did all of this while he was sick too.

All in all, it's the small things, and the tricky flaws, that still touch me -- Evan's sharp, black-rimmed glasses; Big Mark, who gave the perfect hug, even to someone like me (not a hugger); a trail tree that's shaped like a "4;" a long walk with the messy geese and ducks all around; the morning Jerry dropped his plan to put my desk chair together; and yes, the sky. Always, the sky, whether blue or black. The details, the minutes -- one teen’s heavy, blue eye-shadow, the smell of fresh-cut hay – yes, the small stuff is everything.

I've spent a good part of my life seeking the "perfect fit" in relationships, in jobs, in the world in general. But there’s never a perfect fit. Instead, beauty bleeds out from human connections and imperfections. Buried within these moments, there rests a curious thing: love.

C.A. MacConnell