An early evening perched on my family’s deck left my gaze to rest upon what I have long thought to be the most striking animal in the corral. As the sun set slowly behind Mt. Clements, the coloring of this animal was brought to life before my eyes. The sky’s gold and orange hues set off the rich chocolate dorsal stripe, surrounded by an almost brindle colored coat. The animal gazed up at me and I swore our eyes locked for a few fleeting seconds. Those soft eyes left me wondering what past such a beautiful creature was holding onto. Over the last year I have been intrigued over how something so rare and beautiful on the outside could be so fragile and complex on the inside. You see, this animal was not just another normal four-legged creature that had found its way onto my family’s abode. This was a mule. In fact, it was the first mule to ever have found a home here. “Mule” seemed to be its name, and in the nearly two years since he’s moved in he had come as far as almost allowing me to pet him! Dear family friends were kind enough to loan him to us in hopes we could lure him out of shell with TLC and more than a dose of trust. As I have not been the one footing the feed bill, “Mule” is of no bother to me. His “beautiful” bray always supplies me with one of those from-the-belly laughs and typically when I needed a laugh the most. His rare coloring gives a girl all the eye candy she could ask for, so as far as I am concerned he can put his feet up and stay awhile longer.
One day while out painting by the shop, “Mule” decided to rest his head over the nearby gate and keep me company, from a distance he felt was safe of course. Looking over at this creature that wanted so badly to trust but couldn’t unbury his past, I got to pondering about what path folks leave behind and the path that remains in the distance. As the mule loudly beckoned for my attention I looked up once more and begin to wonder just where one crosses over from the heart of a horse into the heart of a mule.
As I have journeyed through this writing experience with the Washington Cattlemen’s Association, some very drastic changes have occurred in my life, but more importantly in my soul. My recent WCA Ketch Pen sabbatical was not unintentional. For those of you that may tune into my blog now and again, you will have possibly noted the change. Anticipating a move to Texas, I quietly changed my blog from the Young Washington Cattlemen’s Association to The Sagebrush Chronicles. This name change was about more than just a potential location change, it granted me the freedom to dive deeper into philosophical ramblings without fear of remaining politically and socially neutral. My writing is something that seems to come from whatever journey my mind and soul is adventuring down. Great for a blog, not great for newspaper deadlines or an audience featuring a load of cattlemen and women that may be used to a slightly stauncher read. After many months of being left high and dry come Ketch Pen time, I came to a bold decision. As just a volunteer writer for a non-profit organization, I decided I was going deep. After all, aren’t all of us trudging up the same trail in life? That inevitable trail that seems to be left off of any map.
That very trail would be the one God and I have been climbing up the past few months, ice pick and all. I honestly acknowledge my recent articles have come up short on bovine related content. The cattle industry has not left my mind entirely; however, due to other circumstances it has only received the occasional nod in its direction from me. Less than two months ago I said goodbye to my job at Farm Credit and pointed my rig west on I-90 for what I hoped would be the last of my weekly Spokane-Selah commute. After a pit-stop in Lind, WA for the annual Combine Derby, I arrived in the Wenas with less than 5 weeks until I was bound for Fort Worth, TX! Last February I boldly applied for a one year Ranch Management Program at Texas Christian University. After inundating the professors of the Ranch Management Program with a lengthy auto-biography I was summoned for an interview. So, mid-April I was once again hitched up on the Southwest wagon, destination Fort Worth. Less than two weeks after my interview I had an official acceptance letter in my hands and the world as my oyster. Once I figured out a well-timed departure from my corporate career, I had just enough days left in Washington State to sell and pay off my car, sell most of my belongings, and find room in a rental rig for my *extensive* wardrobe, minus any winter item containing wool or insulation of course!
Then, that fateful morning dawned with a financial aid wake-up call. This well-oiled, smooth running plan thus far had seemingly been crafted by someone far wiser than me and months back I gave that wise leader the reins to this stubborn mule. God had the ability to change the plan at any time and this time I vowed to be willing to bend and so it seemed our “come to Jesus” talk had arrived. Would I “have the faith” and bend or would I stubbornly stand my ground and continue forward on this southbound trail I desperately wanted to travel? This time, I relinquished control, ignored what the world might say and have been hanging on ever since.
How many of you have sat around the kitchen table late at night wringing your hands through your hair facing a similar situation? God changed the plan mid-game and now what were you to do? The haystacks all caught fire, cows were stolen, Federal grazing stripped from your hands, a family member passed, your “income earner” lost their job...the scenarios seem endless. Well there are really only two options in times of unknown; we can view a change in the trail we were on as an opportunity or a dead-end. With those as my options, it seems I once again find myself picking up my crazy heart and giving it one more try.1 Over the last decade I have found myself in more situations than I would have ever dreamed possible where I asked God, “So I guess we’re adding THIS to the mix?” Would the world see those bumps in the road as blessings? Well...probably not, they would probably just see a trail-block. But the world has the heart of a horse. Sometimes life is complicated, it is deep, it is not to be understood in the present, if understood ever. Sometimes, life requires the heart of a mule.
(1 Bingham, Ryan. “The Weary Kind.” Crazy Heart. MP3. New West Records, 2010.)
