On Falling from Horses, and wallowing in the Mud

I have fallen from my horse.

And here in the mud, I’ve learned something strange:

It is not the bruises that bother me, nor the scrapes & scratches.

It’s the embarassment, that I’ve failed – and it feels like everyone can see.

It’s the lost opportunity – my horse has run on without me, and my own two legs will never carry me fast enough to catch up to it.

And it’s the fear – that maybe everyone else will think I belong in the mud, that I never deserved a horse in the first place.

Looking ahead, I see everyone else riding confidently off into the sunset, and am convinced that they are all secretly laughing at me. That I alone have fallen into the mud, and will never again rejoin the company of riders.

Heh.

Mud blind us. It paralyses us with fear, guilt, embarassment, loss, and isolation. It turns our own faculties against us, deceiving us until we begin to wonder if we deserve to be trapped here in the mud-puddle for all of time.

And so we worry.

“If I stand back up again – if I try to catch my horse, or saddle a new one – I’ll only end up falling back into the cold slimy mud.”

It sounds so reasonable, so sensible, so very mature & clever & careful.

But when you’re reasoning from the mud-puddle, there’s only one truth that matters.

You’ve got to get back on your horse.