Let's go to work

On the good work of making things (and lunging horses)

We call it “working a horse” but what actually means is much more than mere work for work’s sake. When you lunge a horse, you aren’t just running them around in a circle, although you can and many people do.

No, you are asking for teamwork, for grace and give. You want their ear turned toward you, their eye softened on you. You want the hind end to propel the front, to gather itself and grant that extra bit of oomph, noticeable even at a slow speed but much easier to see and ask for once a horse gets going. You are looking for a graceful, bent barrel, a suppleness to the work which tells you the horse is ready, engaged, perhaps even enjoying himself. No one wants to run in a circle indefinitely, but a few minutes of long-line communication, while feeling the earth roll beneath your feet and the easy rhythmic cadence of horse hooves and horse breath tendered into partnership and grace? That’s pretty awesome, both for the horse and for the human.

I lunged my horses for the first time yesterday in more than a year. Ongoing shoulder issues made me gun-shy, any slight tug on the lunge-line could send me reeling in pain for days. But the other day my surgeon said to try to forget I was ever hurt, to embrace being as active as I can (within reason, I’m not supposed to lift a saddle yet) so I figured it was worth a shot. And it was great. My horses all behaved like the true gentlemen they are, and the lunge-line was, as always, an ideal communication tool, an extension of my arms, my hopes, my voice. They liked the work, I could tell. It’s normal to have a pull at first, to lengthen out one’s barrel and try to go one’s own way instead of bending to the curve, to strike out with all shoulders and pride up front instead of using those powerful hind quarters to make the work easier and the strides smoother. But slowly, as we talk and push at each other, the horse finds it: the work, as it was meant to be done, as it is done at its best. I murmur “good boy” and they know better, but I see their eyes flicker, they want to come in for a snuggle and to be told for real that they are actually the goodest boys. Of course I let them, after my arms are sore from holding up a lunge line because a year is a very long time and muscles forget even though the rest of the body does not, and good work deserves good rest. So they put their big heads on my chest and they nicker and sigh and lick their lips and I know that they are glad to be back to work. So am I.

My littlest buckaroo loves to go to work

I’ve been thinking about work lately, because I left my day job in May and have been gigging and momming and certainly working, but not working in the way that I was. Honestly, it’s been wonderful. I needed to leave my workplace and my kids needed me to be more present as school wraps up and summer begins. (My bank account is another matter, but then again, bank accounts don’t tell therapists about their childhoods.)

Work is important. Just as my horses snort with satisfaction after a ride and my boys dig elaborate construction sites in the backyard and my forearms ache deliciously from pulling weeds, we need work. Ideally we need good work, work that matters, work that makes us glad we did it at the end of the day, ready to buckle down and do it again. My husband works harder than nearly anyone I know, he’s always mid-house-project or boat project or work project, he’s always got something working in the background. He is teaching me to work at a pace that makes sense, not to throw myself into work at breakneck speed and then collapse, but to work-a-day, a mule trodding down a field, a simmering pot that’s done when it’s done, a baby who one day is not a baby anymore, but a little boy with opinions.

I am nearly done with the almost-final draft of a writing project that I absolutely can’t wait to sell. I feel about it the way I felt about Buzz the Not-So-Brave. I knew that Buzz would be work - all creative projects are. But I also knew that it would be an endeavor that would, for lack of a better term, work. I knew I could sell it, deep in my bones, and my determination and taste and yes, work, paid off, because it still sells today. (If you need a copy, I can hook you up!)

What I’m working out (this word keeps popping up for me) is this: work is deeply important. It shapes us, it makes us stronger and deeper and wider, faster and more muscular. Like horses, work makes us bend and give and partner. Work should expand us, make us dream bigger and better, remind us of who we are. Of course, sometimes work is hard and complex, but that doesn’t mean it has to be a slog. It should feel like the work of Eden, the work of making things new, of partnering with the ultimate creative force to make the world brighter and more hospitable, curated and beautiful, running smoothly and in harmony.

I believe we can accomplish this with any work we were meant to do, whether that is fencing in cows or making lattes or creating widgets or training horses or fixing cars or selling books or pouring dozens of breakfasts into the hungry maws of one’s offspring (hypothetically).

And, because I am having all of these thoughts about work, because work is feeling freer now in the last few weeks than it has in years; I am gathering as much courage and grace as I can muster, and I am sticking my neck out. I have written for a living before, and I, now that I’ve left my day job, would like to do it again. Work matters. I have lots of it here at Treewater Ranch, with more all the time. We have animals and kids and dust bunnies and all of them need a mom to keep them in line. But I believe that the good work of writing is also meant for me, the essential, ancient work of storytelling, the original creations that AI can never replace or conjure, because it only repeats; it can only copy. Now more than ever, creators need to stand in their work, firm and sure, like a horse who has just had a life-giving workout and is more confident because of it, stronger for it, more ready for the next ride to come.

So if you want to support my work, you can always upgrade your subscription on this here Substack. You can also hire me as a writing coach or editor, and make good work of your own. And, of course, read my books, both Buzz the Not-So-Brave and the ones yet to come.

Work matters, art matters. Thank you, as always, for being here and supporting mine.