This One Wild, Precious Life

a story for you

Photo by Mohamed Nohassi on Unsplash

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”

-Mary Oliver

Can I tell you a story today?

This morning, I was sitting in my adopted coffee shop. (Yes, friend, when you have a coffee shop + used bookstore in an old blue house four minutes from your home, you can call it yours.)

As I sipped my latte (the day called for indulgent dark chocolate and brown sugar) and stared at the blank screen (this page) I finally typed:

Turns out, being sad doesn’t leave you with a lot of words for public consumption.

And then I let the cursor blink again.

Life has been heavy for the last few years.

I know. In a sense, that’s life, pal. You’re on your own, kid. I’ve heard the spiel.

But the heaviness seeps into my bones, especially for two weeks every month, and when it’s present, it doesn’t leave room for much else. How can it, when the slightest thing (yesterday it was POOL CHLORINE) sets off a wave of grief and the accompanying voice that hisses, “Why aren’t you normal yet?” And the voice that mourns, “What are we even supposed to do?” (I’d be lying if I didn’t add the cynical voice that screeches, “Why do humans SUCK?”)

WE INTERRUPT THIS BROADCAST: You know what I mean. They don’t all…I don’t actually listen to that voice…okay anyway moving on.

I texted my husband that I was sad and the words wouldn't come (as one does), and my phone pinged almost immediately. “I’m sorry, babe. I think you need to rest. Maybe just sit and look out the window and stop looking at the screen for now.” Bless you, 1,000%-non-sucky-man. So I sat and sipped and brooded and then packed up with a sigh, planning to grab a book at the library and head home to take Tylenol.

But as I pulled into parking at the library, I saw a shiny State Trooper Mounted Police trailer parked outside with three bright-eyed horses. My introverted side squirmed and the voices started back up. Oh gosh, is there some kind of event? Can I just slip inside without talking to people? I pulled up the library’s Facebook page and sure enough, an event was scheduled in 30 minutes. “Whole families welcome.”

Great, I groused. Do I choose Fun Mom and go get the boys, or do I just ignore it and continue with my day? Do I even have time for something extra?

But then I remembered the pricked ears and sparkling eyes I’d spied in the horse trailer. Fun Mom teamed up with Little Girl Me and won out in a scene worthy of Headquarters in the movie Inside Out. So I drove home, corraled the kids in the car, and headed back up the street to the library. (Yes, I’m insanely lucky to have the library three minutes from home and a coffee shop four minutes from home.)

When we stepped inside, the lieutenant immediately walked up to us, his adorable granddaughter with pigtails and cowgirl hat in tow. “Are y’all here to see the horses?” he asked kindly, blue eyes twinkling. My kids nodded.

“My mom and Granna used to have a horse but he got old,” my four-year-old spoke up from my hip.

“Really?” he said, looking to me for my confirming nod. “Well, you know, if they get old that means you took real good care of them.” My heart twisted a little, nostalgia stirring.

Both boys scrunched into my lap amid a small sea of children and their grownups, and we listened to the officers share about their search and rescue work. They told stories of finding lost children and how they were able to help a nearby community last week in the wake of a tornado.

Then the staff sergeant started speaking. The face I’d pegged as stern broke into a beaming smile, boyish excitement radiating from the tips of his shiny boots to his mohawk-style fade. “How many of y’all love horses?” Little hands shot up. My hand crept up inwardly. “I am so excited to be here with you today. I got up early to drive three hours just to talk to you about horses.”

The man had to be over six feet tall, and his biceps strained at the sleeves of his uniform. But his eyes literally sparkled as he said how much he regretted waiting this late in life to start working with horses.

“I was that little boy,” he said. “Every chance I got, I wanted to be around horses. But I never thought that could be something I could really do as a grownup, right? I ignored how much I loved horses until I was a lot older, and I really hate that. But my daughter, she’s 23 now, she never stopped asking me for a horse. I was out at the barn last night and we have eight of ‘em out there now. So you little girls,” he winked, “Y’all let your daddies know you want horses.”

Everyone chuckled. A lump rose in my throat.

He paused. “I am so grateful that every day I get to wake up and work with these amazing animals. It’s so peaceful, man. It’s so rewarding. I never should have waited so long. I’m so glad my daughter asked for a horse. So kids, if you love horses, don’t ignore that. I’m so excited to put y’all up on Tank today and let y’all interact with him. They really are just magnificent.”

I blinked back tears on the library’s tiled floor, right there in a gaggle of six-year-olds, faced with this enormous man so unashamedly in love with the very thing I’d been embarrassed to admit I loved too.

Photo by Guillermo Mota on Unsplash

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What’s that thing that little you—childhood you—used to love? But then it was swallowed by growing up, adulthood, peer pressure, or the fear of cheesiness? Yeah, that thing.

My horse was named Pegasus—the white mythical flying horse, a constellation of stars, and the symbol of a high-flying imagination. He was white with brown paint markings and striking ice-blue eyes. He had a sense of humor, a streak of stubbornness a mile wide, a propensity for sunburn, and an uncanny sense about people. To this day I know which people he detested (he was never wrong)… and then there was me. He belonged to my whole family, but everyone admitted we had a bond.

I sat (sprawled) on his back on long summer afternoons and read books while he grazed, ever gentle with me. I cried into his mane about boys and my fears and how stupid it was to grow up. He’d curve his neck around, concerned, and snuffle at me. He was solid, gentle, silly, grumpy, always there.

But then I did grow up. I wanted to shed certain identities, the negative connotation of “horse girl” being one of them. I guess I lumped it in with the long denim skirts, braces, glasses, awkwardness, loneliness, and the other parts of me I was willing to leave behind like my Ariat boots and Peg’s tack.

---

We made our way outside in the sunshine. The officers lifted my sons to straddle Elvis and Tank and Delta and I snapped photos and breathed the familiar scent of leather and horse again. I stood next to the staff sergeant and asked if giant Tank, with his kind brown eyes, was a draft cross.

He grinned. “You must have horses.”

“I used to,” I said.

“But you’ll get ‘em again, right?” His grin widened.

“Yeah, I sure would love that. Maybe one day.”

Hi, I’m Caroline. And I’m not ashamed to admit that I love horses.

---

So I ask again.

What’s that thing you love?

I look down as I type these words and smile as I brush horse hair off my leggings. Life hasn’t changed from this morning when I sat in the coffee shop. But I found wonder in the most unexpected place, and that glimmer changed everything today.

“You never have to go far to find wonder,” Junius Johnson told us at the C.S. Lewis Writer’s Conference. “The world is a wonder place, and the most ordinary things can be captivating. But the penalty for looking wonderlessly is to live wonderlessly.”

My friend and I have been fangirling over Joy Wood’s song, “My Days” lately. When she belts out, “I lived this one wild life, I ripped it apart,” something stirs deep inside.

Burst through the corners with no apologies, friend.

Name the things that cultivate wonder and bring joy.

Rip the seams of this one wild life. Be vulnerable and enthusiastic.

My phone pings beside me on the picnic blanket as I type this. It’s another friend, telling me about her joyous, “idiot grin” because of the freedom she feels when she runs.

Life is entirely too short to spend it wonderlessly. God made it wild and precious and it matters because you matter.

As Staff Sergeant B. would tell you, don’t wait to admit the things you love.

So every day, do something that doesn’t compute, as Wendell Berry writes in his famous poem. This, too, is practicing resurrection.