This morning, running a bit later than usual, I didn't take my dogs on our typical walk out through the hay meadows; instead, we made a quick trip up to the mailbox at the highway, just far enough to let them run a bit and to get my blood flowing. As we neared the gate to the highway, our youngest dog, a puppy named Hoss, bolted ahead to sniff at something in the culvert. I panicked, yelling at him to come back, with little success. Our highway, even as far out in the country as we are, is a major commerce route between northeastern Wyoming and southern Montana. Semi-trucks, passenger vehicles, pickups pulling trailers of livestock or machinery -- all hurtle past our driveway at 70 mph any time of day. Had he run out in front of one of them, Hoss wouldn't have had a chance. I ran up to the highway, grabbed his collar, and dragged him back to the safety of the driveway. Of course I couldn't be angry at him: although it was reckless of him to run up to that culvert, it was more reckless of me to take him near the highway without a leash.
Both life on the ranch and life beyond 40 have been teaching me many lessons about recklessness these last months. One might believe that ranching is something of a reckless occupation, filled as it is with physical danger. The dictionary, however, tells us that to be reckless is not simply to engage in a dangerous activity; it is to engage in any activity without proper caution, to have no regard for consequences. Ranchers actually spend hours on precautions designed to minimize the danger of their job: sharp-shoeing horses to ride on wintry ice; moving cattle quietly and easily through rough hills and prairie dog towns; checking tack to ensure proper fit for the horses and safety for the rider; warming up a young colt on the ground before mounting. Failure to do these activities can result in consequences as fleeting as a good scare, or as final as death. Ranchers really cannot afford to be reckless.
Neither, it seems, can I. Though I've certainly suffered my share of setbacks and difficulties - as anyone does - mostly I've lived quite a charmed life. I have six children, none of whom suffers from a life-threatening illness or incapacitating disability. I've always had a roof over my head, even if I don't own it, and plenty of food in my cupboards. I do work I enjoy, for decent pay and benefits, with enough leisure time to pursue avocations that don't pay very well. All this good fortune, I'm afraid, led me to take most of my life for granted, and to even become critical and whiny about a life that many would envy. And with that discontent came a recklessness about appreciating the blessings I'd always taken for granted. However, life has knocked me on my ass a bit in the last six months: thankfully, none of the consequences of my recklessness have been final, but many of them have been ground-shaking enough to scare me, wake me up.
Recently, I've learned that, after a lifetime of envious health, I now have several diagnoses that will affect the way I eat and take care of my body for the rest of my life. The most significant of these is celiac disease, an autoimmune disorder that can only be managed if I don't consume the gluten found in wheat, rye or barley products. All my life, I've enjoyed a high metabolism and the ability to eat all types of food. Although I've mostly eaten healthfully because I have a family, I've also gone through days and even weeks recklessly consuming erratic meals comprised of junk food and caffeine. Even when my symptoms pointed to the need to make dietary changes, I chose to ignore the signs. Now, I am suddenly confronted with a choice: continue my lifelong habits and continue to be sick, or start planning meals and purchasing food with care and caution. Gluten is found not only in bread and cereal products, but also in many commercially prepared and processed foods. Avoiding it requires advance planning, careful hygiene, and iron discipline.
My personal health now requires a high level of discipline and care, but not as much as my personal relationships now do. During the last half year, I have discovered, to my anguish, how neglected and judged my family has felt. A drive to succeed, to measure up, in the outer world led me to become careless about the feelings of the people I love most; a compulsion to compare our life to others' led me to be critical and controlling of my family. As a result, my most important human relationship almost fell apart last fall. Going through that pain caused me to take a hard look at the person I was becoming; could I really afford to be so reckless with my language, my lifestyle, my love? Thankfully, my lack of caution about marriage and family life caused only a temporary scare, not permanent death.
Taking proper care and caution about family life requires even more diligence than properly caring for my body does. Conversations must be started - and finished - even when difficult and uncomfortable. Expectations must be evaluated based on fairness and overall good for our family, rather than on arbitrary standards that don't fit our unique life. Companionship and compassion must be valued before discipline and drive. Work obligations must take second place to family life, and pursuing my dreams must lead me back to a place where the people I love are waiting.
Oddly, this new emphasis on evaluating my lifestyle - both physical and spiritual - more carefully has led me to embrace a different kind of recklessness - one that stretches me, forces me to face my demons even if I am quaking inside. I know from living with and loving ranchers all my life that this kind of recklessness happens daily - a lack of concern for self in order to get a job done, to do the right thing. It's what keeps cowboys out in freezing weather to warm baby calves, or goads them to ride a flightly colt through its fears to a place where it has the potential to be a horse. It's what keeps farmers planting year after year, even when drought parches the earth and prices barely allow them to buy new seed. This kind of recklessness is actually an awareness that the job before us is exactly the one we are supposed to do - a faith that, when we leap, angel wings stretch out to catch us on our way down. It's the recklessness that has allowed me to finally speak of difficult subjects with the people I love, to tell the truth about myself and my feelings, without knowing how my words will be received. It's the recklessness that permits me to stand up for my family and my self, knowing that I may not be professionally or socially respected for it. It's the recklessness that prompts me to say "I love you," and "I miss you", even if those words won't be reciprocated. It's the recklessness that has allowed me to write the truth, even when tears blur my eyes and my fingers tremble at the keys. It's the recklessness that moves me to love, even if my love is not returned.
The thing about celiac disease that is somewhat sinister is its link to other illnesses; since it is really a form a malnutrition, deficiences slowly lead to disease. Even though I am now taking care of my health and eating to not aggravate my gluten allergy, I have no way of knowing if I will still succumb to osteoporosis, lymphoma, cancer. The damage may have already been done; I can only do the best I can with what I know now. Likewise, my personal life may not ever fully recover. I try now to show up in my life, pay attention to the people around me, speak my truth. Surrendering the results? I'm working on it, but I'm not there yet.
Shawn has a sign in our mud room that reads: "Courage is being scared to death but saddling up anyway." This morning he needed help to bring in about 300 pregnant mother cows, to be sorted and moved into calving pastures. I don't often help gather. In fact, in the nearly seven years we've lived on this ranch, I've only ridden on very small moves. The pastures here are huge, and the ground is deceptively treacherous; normally I am too scared of missing cows, making mistakes, causing a wreck. I stay home to avoid looking foolish and disappointing my husband. Today, though, I saddled up. There was a job to do, and even though I might have messed up, I was needed. All morning, through difficult creek crossings and slow-moving mama cows, I just focused on my job, and tried not to think about the impression I was making or the potential danger I was in. Although I didn't lope recklessly across prairie dog towns or attempt any cowgirl show-off tricks, I did keep the moving parts moving. Now, the cattle are in the corral being sorted, lunch has been served, and there is peace in our house.
The kids' bus has pulled into the yard. It's time to leave my personal pursuit - for now - and focus on them. Time to think about taking the dogs for a walk - with a leash! - or saddling up their ponies. Time to be their mom, and not worry about dirty dishes or unwashed laundry. Time to recklessly ignore the details that don't matter much, and pay reckless attention to the ones that do.
