Yesterday
I did battle with an overgrown wild rose patch in my backyard. It was a thorny
job. I could have protected my arms from getting bloodied as I trimmed back the
invading bushes, but there was something courageous about wearing short sleeves.
Later in the day, while spraying hydrogen
peroxide on my scratches, I thought about why I do such silly things.
Back in my forties, I once ran in the Black Earth 10 Mile Run during a rainstorm.
I had never run 10 miles before, even in ideal conditions. I remember lining up
at the start and seeing seasoned runners stretching and jumping up and down in
preparation. After what felt like agonizing days later, I was the 148th runner
to cross the finish line… out of 149 participants. I was sore for weeks.
Another time, in my sixties, I chose to go horseback riding for the first time
with a group of savvy cowboys in Wyoming. They took off on the trail. My horse
named Albert did not follow my clear directions. Instead, Albert proceeded to
go back in the barn and lie down while I was still in the saddle. I sprained my
ankle and threw my new cowboy hat in the trash can.
Perhaps I will never do another silly thing for the rest of my life. But a
little voice deep inside me says I hope I do.