"Come to the Edge"

I haven't touched this blog in weeks nor have I had any desire to do so. I have been absorbed by my writing class and by the 5,000 short story I had to produce for class this week. So many things have happened during that time.

The weather in Vermont turned bitterly cold and snowy. I sat day after day at the computer bringing alive a character who is dear to my hear. She is flawed but it is her flaws that make her so precious to me. And, as I wrote her story, that of a battered woman of my age, who isn't able to see her choices beyond life with a man, my life in many ways started to mirror hers. Like my character, Agnes, I too became anxious. My anxiety peaked when I finished the story and published it on my classroom Blackboard and awaited the comments. Am I a writer? Am I talented enough to have what it takes? What do people think of my writing? I have been tense and joyless as I awaited validation or censure.

While I was working on my story, I decided to start riding again. And, I erroneously assumed Khrysta and I would pick up where we left off last fall.

At first, Khrysta seemed to be excited to be out in the snow packed woods. But, one day as we were out on the trails, a small animal ran underneath her hooves. She reared in the air, headed home and since then she has become afraid and unwilling to extend herself beyond her immediate barnyard area. I could visit her, brush her, tack her without any problem but try as I might I could not budge her from the sanctuary of her immediate surroundings. Every nerve in her body quivered with fear when I tried to get her to move forward.

I decided not to push her. I was busy writing and I had no time for her antics. I was more angry than sympathetic and ready to play the blame game. But at the moment, it didn't matter, I was busy elsewhere.

I posted my story on the classroom blackboard on Sunday and I sat glued to the computer waiting for the comments from my peers. Ah, if they like my story, then I am a writer. If they hate it, then my worst fears of my lack of talent are confirmed.

Yesterday, I said enough. The story is done. What will be will be and it's time for my heroine and I to part ways.

I found Khrysta in her usual spot; at her stall. The snow gleamed on the top of the pasture about a quarter of a mile away from the base of the barn. No, I had no intention of letting Khrysta remain within the confines of her barn, trapped by her fears. Today I would leave off the saddle, the bridle, the halter and lead rope and we would go for a walk together, just the two of us as friends.

Up the hill we went. I was in waist deep snow. Khrysta followed behind, hesitating at first.

Halfway up and the view started to open. The mountains were beautiful dressed in white. How long had it been since I even noticed?

Khrysta paused, remembering how she loved to dig in the snow. I watched and waited as she searched for the grass she has been missing for so many months. Snow swirled around her busy hooves.

When she was done, we started our journey once more. On we went, higher still, both of us walking with purpose now, just a little faster, a little more self assured.

At the top, I paused to look down at the barn so small in the distance. The mountains surrounded me, the vast sky was above me. All of a sudden the malaise of the past few weeks receded. I started running and challenged Khrysta to a race. She walked behind me at first but as I struggled in the snow drifts and laughed out loud as I repeatedly fell on my face, she started to run, faster and then with complete abandon. Running, bucking, joyous in her freedom, Khrysta circled the high meadow. When she could run no more, she stopped in front of me and put her head on my shoulder. I could feel the hot breath coming out of her nostrils and the utter relaxation in her body. We spent more time up on the mountain, Khrysta and I. Hanging out, being friends, letting it all go.

As both Khrysta and I drew our worlds tightly around us the past few weeks, each of us became lost in our fears. I became my character and then after becoming her, I allowed fear to overwhelm me. Am I ever going to succeed as a writer? What if people don't like my work?

Ah, but now I remember. It is not the destination. Never. It is the journey. The day to day beauty of a life lived in awe and wonder and thankfulness. I may or may not become an author. People will either like or not like my writing. But no longer will it define me. Yes, I will strive and work hard for my dream but with every day I will also take time to embrace life, enjoy it, thank God for it and step outside myself.

Guillaume Apollinaire said it so beautifully.

"Come to the edge," he said.
"We're afraid," they said.
"Come to the edge", he said.
They came.
And he pushed them and they flew.


Find your desire, push yourself and fly.