The Writing Rancher

I’ve written before about the beloved Dr. Seuss’ famous words:

How did it get so late so soon? It’s night before it’s afternoon. December is here before it’s June. My goodness how the time has flewn. How did it get so late so soon?

Though I’ve floated a million thoughts and ideas through my head, no other sentiment rings truer to me. The past years have most certainly ‘flewn’ by in a hurry. So much has changed!

Odd years have marked happy occasions for my family. The hubby and I started dating in 2003 and married in 2005. We welcomed our twins in 2007 and followed them with two more boys in 2009 and 2011. I left my fundraising career behind in 2013, and we celebrated 10 years of marriage in 2015.

Though I know we’ve experienced loss and challenges in those “odd” years, life’s happy milestones have overshadowed the heartache.

I’m not necessarily a superstitious person, and I haven’t put real stock in our yearly trends. But, even years over the past decade have been a bit rough. Because of especially difficult losses, I don’t take the reminder of life’s cycles lightly.

Maya Angelou once said, “My mission in life is not merely to survive but to thrive and to do so with some passion, some compassion, some humor and some style.” The great American author and poet died in 2014, and I believe she completed her life’s mission. She left a powerful, beautiful mark on the world. In doing so, she left each of us the precious gift of hope through her words.

Here dawns 2017, and I’m still pondering whether I am simply surviving or attempting to thrive. At least one thing remains the same, I’m a slow learner!

My perceived struggles are quite merely minor annoyances—realities of life—to most people. There are days when I feel like the piles of laundry, mountains of stuff, and rivers of ‘to do’ lists have reduced me to a survivalist. I get stuck in the yuck of monotony and fail to see the big picture. I catch myself interacting with those I love most without thought, without compassion, and without the grace they deserve.

Those are the days I despise. Nothing in the piles, mountains, or rivers is so important that I should lose sight of what really matters; yet, I do.

Compound the minor issues with other realities like depression, anxiety, and fear, and I’m telling you, I could throw quite a party. My family suffers because of me on those days; they don’t see the examples they deserve. In those moments, I fail.

Those are also the moments I hold tightly to thoughts from people like Hal Borland. The American author, journalist, and naturalist once said, “Year’s end is neither an end nor a beginning but rather a going on with all the wisdom that experience can instill in us.”

Experience is as great teacher, especially when coupled with a positive attitude.

I’ve reached the age where I know what makes me tick. I understand what lifts me up and drags me down. I’ve also reached the age where it’s high-time to trust what I’ve learned.

At some point, being in a rut becomes a choice. Eventually, the pain to change must be less than the pain of staying the same.

Perhaps that’s what 2017 can be for me, maybe even for you … the year we embrace what we’ve learned in order to change what we’re doing for the better.

Living a life of purpose isn’t about living a life packed with stuff while we run busily from one activity to the next. When our time is over, I don’t believe any of the stuff or the running will matter. All that will count is the compassion, humor, style, and grace we left behind with those for whom we took real time.

To me, Dr. Seuss wrote it best in his final book, Oh, The Places You’ll Go:

You have brains in your head.
You have feet in your shoes.
You can steer yourself any direction you choose. …
So be sure when you step,
Step with care and great tact
And remember that life’s a great balancing act.

                And will you succeed?
Yes! You will, indeed!
(98 and ¾ percent guaranteed.)

May the year ahead be filled with bountiful blessings, abundant joy and enough faith to carry you through life’s valleys!

How often do you look at pictures of yourself as an infant or toddler?

I bet your answer ranges between rarely and never. I also wager you’re not alone. I don’t know a single adult, especially an adult farmer or rancher, who regularly looks at—let alone carries around—a childhood photo.

Well, folks, I’ll confirm my oddity by admitting I do just that.

Circa 1979: You’ve come a long way, baby!

The photo to the right is me, circa 1979. I was almost one. This photo sits on my desk and stands guard as the lock screen image on my phone.

Why?

Because that little girl with curly hair and big eyes helps me remember how far I’ve come and reminds me not to get lost in whatever stuff might—or might not—be happening at the moment.

According to me personally, every communication-style assessment known to man, and any person who knows me well, I’m a forward thinker. I don’t get caught up in “today” because I’ve already moved on to thinking about next week—sometimes even the next decade.

My natural abilities can serve me well. I’m strong help when it comes to strategic planning, vision boarding, grant writing, long-term goal setting, and more. I thrive on reading people, places, and situations in order to plan for or create something in the future.

Those same abilities can also make me a giant pain.

I am extremely hard on myself. I tend to be overly critical and easily annoyed when the “now” doesn’t match up the “planned future”. I don’t live in the moment. I struggle to prioritize and focus on daily tasks. I don’t naturally take time to appreciate all that’s been accomplished because I’m constantly pushing for something better.

Major League Baseball pitcher Joe Weiland spoke right to me when he said, “It’s important not to get too caught up in what you’d like to happen in the future, all the while ignoring the good things you already do have.”

Enter the photo of my younger self. A few seconds marveling at those innocent eyes so wide with wonder and open to joy soften my heart and remind me there was a time when “right now” was enough.

By seeing my baby picture, I’ve found a way to be present and content if only for a moment. I’ve discovered looking at my younger self helps me speak and think more kindly. I find it easier to be grateful in the moment even if the moment isn’t what I had planned.

We live in a world where better is always on the horizon. We’re all striving to stay relevant in a noisy world. For a lot of us, the push for a better tomorrow means less appreciation for what’s great today.

I’m not suggesting we all stop pushing for progress, and I don’t believe we ag folks are ungrateful. But, maybe there’s more room for contentedness than we think.

Perhaps the nostalgia I’ve found in a baby picture has a place in our farming and ranching businesses. The best our sector has to offer can’t be appreciated in spreadsheets and financial assessments. Our best lies in our people, so it’s important for our people not to get lost in the shuffle of progress.

As our cattle herd, facilities, equipment, and acres age each day, I find it easy to get stuck in “get better” mode. I can be a real nag when it comes to figuring out how we’re going to get everything done, how we’re going to make marked improvements while maintaining quality family time, and how far there is yet to go.

Our business means so much to me that I forget the ranch we’re helping grow was once only a dream. So, much like the photo on my desk and phone, we have a wall in our home full of aerial ranch photos. We consider investing in those photos a necessary business expense. They represent the ethereal bigger picture, a way to step back and appreciate where we’ve been so we can remember the joy in where we’re going.

Seeing those pictures of progress connects us to how we felt when we added that new yard or got that building fixed up. We have more appreciation for what we’ve already built, and we have a better guide for what is yet to come.

As we head into another season of head-down-busy, I hope you take lots of moments to appreciate where you are. I also hope you’ll display or carry a photo with you that fills your heart with peace … a photo that makes you stop, look up, and appreciate the journey you’re on.

There’s surely a lot for us yet to accomplish, but let’s not forget the progress we’ve already made and the good things we already have!

Last spring, my uncle Neal told me calving was his favorite time of year because,

“it’s a new beginning. Things aren’t always good. Sometimes, bad stuff goes down. But, seeing those baby calves hit the ground reminds me there’s always a new day, a new start, and always something to be grateful for.”

I took his words back then, turned them into a story regarding his recognition as my home county’s livestock producer of the year, and filed them neatly away.

He got some ribbing after my story printed as family asked when they got to meet that sentimental guy I wrote about. He took the jabs with his middle finger and a crooked grin, but he tolerated the fun.

In retrospect, I realize that hard-headed, soft-hearted man I feared as a child and respected as an adult was leaving our family a reminder not to get lost in the sorrow of death but to live in the hope of life.

After our spring interview, Neal went fishing with friends, watched his babies hit the ground, and spent time with family. We enjoyed the state fair and picked show calves. He celebrated birthdays and anniversaries, and he led one helluva annual pheasant hunt.

By late October, the cancer he’d been battling quietly refused to stay silent any longer, and what we all had felt somewhere in our souls became a clear reality—his battle wouldn’t be won by doctors and medicine.

True to his character, he held strong for his 62nd birthday party, complete with Crown and pizza, in his hospital room. He stayed the course through Thanksgiving and two of his daughter’s birthdays. He fought to celebrate a final Christmas.

Then, just after most of our family wished me a happy birthday on New Year’s morning, he found peace and triumphantly started 2016 with eternal life in heaven.

Queen Elizabeth II once said, “Grief is the price we pay for love.”

I suppose she’s right but must admit I think grief is a terrible price. I’d prefer to think of love as a gift free to everyone, but I learned long ago nothing comes without cost. But grief? Really? It’s a complex, often ugly, receipt left behind for us to hold when something or someone we love is gone.

The worst parts of grief to me though are that:

1. no part of it is the same for any two people, and
2. there are no right ways to experience it.

I like rules. Though I enjoy a gray sweater in my closet, I prefer black and white examples of how life should be done. Unfortunately, those black and white rules don’t really exist for anything, and if anyone taught me that, it was my colorful uncle.

If anyone besides my family is still reading, thank you. I know the New Year is about joyfully celebrating new beginnings, and I’ve been quite the Debbie Downer. I also know the down part of life is just as real as the up.

It’d be easy to gloss over the hard stuff, to share only the beauty of life’s roses. But, I think that happens too often in some ways. Sure, the roses are gorgeous, and we should enjoy them fully. It’s important to clip them off, to cherish them in a vase or a picture, to gush over their beauty.

I think it’s just as important though to feel the pain of a rose’s thorn, to watch it die.

None of us is impervious to death. Especially in the livestock industry, we deal with it routinely and must find a way to move past loss in order to keep going each day. That’s why calving season or a new year is such a gift.

We can take all the grief from all the days before, and—even if only for a minute—we can let the promise of a new start wash it all away.

I don’t know what the new year holds for you, but I do know at some point you will grieve. Maybe it won’t be life-changing, soul-numbing grief, but grief will happen just the same. That’s life, and grief is part of our human affliction.

I also can’t tell you how to handle the grief you feel. It will be yours and yours alone. All I know for certain is that you must allow yourself to feel it for if you don’t there’s no way to really and full love all that surrounds you.

May the smiles you share in 2016 be the light needed to cast rainbows through all your tears!

To read older posts from The Writing Rancher, please visit blumranch.net. Thank you!