The Velvet Couch
Ah, the comfort zone. My personal hangout. The place where I kick my shoes off and lounge in my jammie pants. A place in my mind where I used to drink a glass of red wine and dream of the days when I wouldn’t drink red wine anymore because I’d be too busy living out my dreams in style. Oh, yes, a place of plush carpet and velvet couches….
I recently submitted Unconquered Horses to a nationally recognized writing contest for inspirational fiction. Now, before you get excited and think this blog is about my sweeping the contest and clasping without effort the win in my category, just stop right there. You’ve entered my comfort zone and you’re lounging on my velvet couch beside me. No, that’s not where this is going. The winners for the contest aren’t announced until sometime in June or July. I don’t lose sleep wondering if I’ll place well, or at all, and in fact, I don’t give it a thought.
Why? Well, that’s simple. I didn’t have to watch the competition roll in and unload their submissions. I didn’t have to see them open the door to their thirty-some-odd foot living quarters horse trailer and unload the machine they intent to use to bludgeon me with. Nope. No idea if they used a Mac or an HP to type it on. No clue if they’re self-published or backed by a world-renowned publishing house. Heck, I don’t even know if they submitted into my category or if they’re all dog-piling into the murder/mystery/WWII genre with eighteen sequels attached. The submissions might even be- horrors of horrors- ghost written. Isn’t that what everyone loves to read- sequels penned by broke college students over spring break?
Where was I before my silly rant… ah, yes. My velvet couch with my imaginary glass of red wine. Occasionally I rise from my plush protective cover and venture into the unknown. I get used to doing things my way with no gauge as to my effectiveness. So, I like to load my submissions, or horses, as the case may be, and trek into the world and see how I stack up. Usually, I end up crying and longing for my velvet couch once more. But this time, I decided I’d take the beating like a real woman and learn from it. I attended a clinic for young barrel horses. Literally, I got to watch everyone unload their machines that someday, they intended to bludgeon me with. And fine machines they were, all bred to do exactly that; bludgeon the competition.
My poor ranch horses had never traveled through Salt Lake traffic before, slept few nights away from their happy sagebrush home, never spent an exorbitant amount of time in a box stall. They arrived at the clinic location in the dark in a re-enactment of Noah’s flood, Ma Nature having lapsed in her psychiatric prescriptions again. Us being made of entirely sugar, we nearly melted. Unaccustomed to not having visual on each other, both horses were pretty sure I’d separated them for life. Once my little mare figured out the gelding was just on the other side of the wall, she quit fussing.
We survived the night.
The next morning we saddled up and made runs for the trainer serving as clinician. Now, we all know when we run we’re being watched. But, in the case of clinic scenarios, we are paying a professional to watch us run and tell us where we lack. While our dream is to immediately be excused from the class and reimbursed our fee because the clinician just can’t seem to come up with a single thing to correct us on, I’ve yet to have that happen. They are there to make students better. I personally find no matter how much yoga and stretching I’ve done in preparation for class, it’s never enough. Perhaps that’s got something to do with the fact I out aged the rest of the participants by a good ten years or more.
As my youngest son always says, “You’re not old, Mom. Just really crinkly.”
Note his easing the blow by using crinkly in place of wrinkly. Funny, the mirror in my comfort zone doesn’t show crinkly skin…
One thing these crinkles have given me is a pretty good perspective on encouragement. Many is a time I have felt as low as any scabby-kneed dipshit might, and like as not, somebody came along and said just one thing that helped me climb out of my self-induced pit. Being at the crinkle stage, I can see just when someone needs those same ladder rungs. Especially that little gal riding a hot-head fire dragon who just wants her horse to make a circle without spooking. Yeah, this too shall pass. And what an incredible ride that horse’ll be. That gal who wants to run against the big dogs but doesn’t feel like she’s the right caliber. Guess what? Those NFR runners get bucked down, too, sometimes. Just enter one big one. No matter what, you’ll learn something important you can use later.
So, what did I learn at this clinic? That velvet couch and that imaginary glass of wine aren’t making me into who I want to be. If I intend to do something, I better do it like I want it to be successful. The horse I’m riding is always handier and more athletic than I give them credit for, and I can help people feel good about themselves. The only time I’ve ever truly lost at something, was when I said the word can’t to myself and meant it. I can ride horses that granddaddies would’ve frowned at back in their younger years. By golly, I can make a horse, and I’m good at it. I just need a little polishing.
What’s holding you back? That cushy couch that shapes around your backside real nice? A past crash n’ burn that just won’t let you breathe easy? Fear that tells you you’re gonna fail? Or, perhaps, you need a rung on your ladder to climb out of the pit of despair. Whatever it is, don’t be afraid to get it. Don’t be afraid to let somebody with know-how watch you and help you. And more than anything, don’t be afraid to lift somebody up as you go.
And I promise I’ll let you know how the writing contest plays out.
God bless.
Lyn