I’ve lived numerous different lives. Not in any particular order -- I've been a horse trainer, a blogger, 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, a novelist, 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, and the whole world seemed so 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, sweatpants, or loose jeans. Around me, others seemed to be wearing suits, aprons, or fluorescent orange, steadily keeping time with 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 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 hanging out backstage at rock shows; I think of the joy of the music, and the chance meetings, the times when strangers changed my life forever. And with my books, I cherish the moments when I was lost in creativity, or other times when people approached me and expressed that my words touched them, made them feel an escape, made them able to tune out the world for a time. I’ve always enjoyed getting “lost” in things, and if I can provide that feeling for someone else, cool.
When thinking about my numerous riding students, the kids who stand out are the most "difficult" ones – the girl who couldn’t remember the course, the tiny, talented one who cried every lesson, and all of the troublemakers, yes, who touched my heart. Those were the ones who challenged me, made me alter my teaching, or made me laugh. In 1996, I won a slew of writing awards, but not much later, Seattle street skaters helped me stay alive, when I was nothing but a hopeless case. In 1999, a friend 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, 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.” 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
