{Mustang}

She watched a scorpion scamper from underneath the corner of the porch to a patch of sage smattered with orange and red paintbrush. It was her favorite wildflower. It always had been. She’d seen it blooming in June in her hometown mountains in western Montana; the vibrant, deep red always caught her attention riding along the trails. But here, in the sagebrush steppe of Nevada, the color appeared more orange in tone, and the way it looked against the greener, spring tones of sage, subtly yet strongly standing out, made her love it all that much more.

She rested her folded hands on the railing of the rickety porch, squinting into the late afternoon sun, her green eyes creased at the corners showing crow’s lines. She grabbed the end of her black, platted hair, and fondled with the handmade silver concho securing it in place. Her fingers were adorned with old silversmith rings and donned her favorite shades of jade and turquoise and her veins traced and bulged under her copper bracelets at her wrists. Her style was eclectic; from her weathered, old high top, custom buckaroo boots, pant legs tucked, to her braided horsehair belt and old pearl snap thinly worn shirt with the sleeves rolled. She was naturally beautiful and never fussed with maintaining her appearance. Her mid sized frame showed the hard work she’d put in outdoors fixing fence, working cows, and riding young colts.

She’d made a trip to Wadsworth to bring her Gran some horsehair for hitching. Gran. She was something. Jade looked back over her shoulder at the old Paiute woman with so much love and admiration. Gran was what everyone called her. She’d loved and raised and mothered more strays than anyone, and she’d taken a liking to Jade when she first expressed interest in wanting to learn beading and braiding. Gran had learned how to hitch hair and braid from her husband, an old vaquero from from California, selling her pieces to make ends meet.

Gran’s gnarled hands gently worked the gray horse hair. “This is a good color, Jade girl. You got a good one. A good bbooggoo.”

Jade smiled at Gran’s Native tongue. Bbooggoo was simply horse in Northern Paiute. She’d seen the steely gray colored stud not far from her shack early this morning when she’d been out gathering in the yearling colts, and heard the yips and howls of a pack of coyotes trying to move in on him. He had a busted shoulder; no doubt the recipient of a life ending blow dealt by another stud scrapping over mares. He’d hobbled up the hill and was struggling to get away. She knew the kind thing to do was put him down.

She pulled up her lever action .30-30, lined up drawing an x from each ear to eye and pulled the trigger. Her heart sunk along with the gray’s body to the ground. She fought back the bile in her gut looking to make an exit. She hated to do it, but hated even more the suffering. The coyotes scattered at the shot, and Jade made her way to the carcass. It was obvious he’d been struggling for a while, ribs showing, his appearance shrunken, and his hide covered in ticks.

She reached down and touched the neck, closed her eyes, and muttered a blessing over the horse. It was something Gran taught her, to always give thanks to the horse for his existence. Only then could you harvest any of the mane or tail hair. The mane was preferred for hitching and braiding because it was more soft and supple, and it also made the best mecates. It was only fitting that a wild horse that lived here, also met his fate here in the rocky sagebrush patch. She took in the toughness of his muscle, the shape of his hooves with the prominent frog, the square jaw, wide set eyes, small ears and short back. She stroked him one last time before she took what she needed of the hair, closed the eyes on the dead stud with her palms, tipped her hat and walked home.

It was a way of life here, and not one easily understood, but she embraced it fully. Jade turned around and found a chair next to Gran on the porch. Gran reached over, patted her hand, and smiled. She was missing teeth, her skin weathered, but her deep brown eyes always sparkled and spoke of her youth.

“Stay for supper, girl?”

“Sure thing, Gran,” Jade said, reaching over and clasping the old woman’s hand.

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Born {Game}

“Baby sister, I was born game, and I intend to go out that way.” ~Rooster Cogburn (John Wayne) True Grit

It’s a funny, enlightening, scary and humbling thing to write out a list of things you feel you’re good and bad at. I did this recently. I will tell you, there were direct correlations and similarities between the two contradictions. I realize I’m pretty darn good at drinking coffee until it’s an acceptable time to drink wine. I’m good at laughing at inappropriate things at even more inappropriate times. I’m good at praying on a Sunday and cussing because it’s Monday.

Self awareness comes to us in raw moments in life, and you have the choice to embrace it or put in on the back burner of life and never take a look in depth at the real you.

It’s easy to identify and align yourself with family traits and traditions, and grow up thinking one way your whole life, thinking this is all that’s important to me, this is all I will ever want. But someday, you will realize your life has taken its own course like you just picked up your own reins to your own horse to ride over your own mountain pass. There you sit in the saddle, and how tall and strong and true you sit, matters. You look ahead at the mountains and the picturesque beauty, the blush of new beginnings, the clear mountain streams that bubble from the hillside giving you crisp, clear hopes calling you to dream bigger.

Life twists and turns down the trail; it’s going along status quo, your packs are riding on your mules nice and square, and then, you start chewing on the choices of your life like a piece of sinewy, tough jerky, you just pulled out of your day old lunch from the saddle bags, and you don’t always like the taste. The words of Jesus and the devil play simultaneously in your ear and talk over each other. And there becomes this sudden rush of trying to figure out what’s right and what’s wrong for you, because daylight is burning on this one trip around the sun.

The trail becomes this hot, scorched burn scar and life is baring down on you. I believe in those moments, that’s what you find what you’re really good at. You’re good at being tough and squaring your shoulders. You’re good at following your gut. You’re good at remembering what makes you, you. You realize God has His purpose for you.

You pass a green tree starting to emerge through the ashes next to the trail, and you identify. You realize you can’t see much beauty, but you see traces of what’s to come. And you know it’s just a matter of time before its beauty fills you up again.

Baby sister, you were born game… Hell, ya might as well go out that way.

Happy Trails-

Heather

{Gone}

Sometimes I get these wild and crazy ideas about stories I’d like to write. I literally have ideas on a continual turntable running through my mind, and I’m terrible about putting them down somewhere when they come to mind. Sometimes inspiration comes from the slightest things- like watching my horse’s mane move on the breeze- sometimes it’s a nostalgic feeling that washes over me remembering the used to be- sometimes, it’s song lyrics- if the truth were told, my mind never really shuts off. So, I decided to put one of those ideas down- it’s just a little quip- a little insight into a story I may or may not someday write- but here it is…

She cracked the heavy oak door open to her modest, old ranch house, and stepped out onto the wrap around porch. The scent of piñon pine and sage wafted in on the early summer night breeze. She watched the last orange and pink rays of the sun warm the high desert mountains before waning into the horizon.

Her eyes drifted to the dirt road and the tail lights leaving. They didn’t pause, he didn’t slow, there was no hesitation. “That’s it,” she thought. She wasn’t sure how she felt yet- she knew it was coming- but in the moment she had no tears to cry, no assuming lump in her throat- because she’d been too damned independent her whole life. At 42, she rather enjoyed her solitude. “It is what it is,” she muttered to herself and let the words float away with the lights. What he didn’t know was he’d be better off in the long run.

She sat a moment in the old rickety rocker on the porch, listening to the creaking of wood on wood, as she pulled a pack of blue American Spirits from her jacket. She lit one up and breathed deep- letting the smoke roll over her. She rarely smoked. But tonight- she didn’t care- she just sat there and blankly stared into the night’s sky. The stars were starting to glow.

From the corral in the distance, she heard him nicker. Her longest friend. She got up from the rocker, took another drag, and strolled over the rocky drive to the corral gate. He walked up to her, and she reached for the familiar silhouette- her old bay friend. She ran her fingers through his mane, took the last long drag on her cigarette, and tossed the butt down, crushing it with her boot heel. She reached for him with her other hand- sunk her forehead into his neck- and just held on.

This is where her feelings surfaced. This is where she felt something- felt everything. It was her process. This horse had been through it all with her. He’d wandered through her remote place in the Virginia Range with a small band of mares- a young, strong bay stud. He caught her eye from the get go- the scars- the muddy, craggy look of his face- the shiny red mixed with black- and she lured him into the corral one morning. He willingly came, and when she shut the gate on him- he never flinched. It was like he’d been here before- so she held on to him- that was 15 years ago…

And now, here he was, standing quietly… just being. As she stood there letting his smell fill her nose, she finally felt that lump form in her throat- tears stung her eyes… and she thought of the news she received last week on her annual doctor’s visit. Words like “Stage 4” and “too late” and ” we could try” filtered through. She let the tears spill from the corners of her tightly squeezed eyes.

The bay lifted his head, nickered loudly in her ear, jarring her back to reality. She raised her head, looked up, and stroked his neck. She saw the herd rolling through in the distance. He nickered again-

She turned and walked away and he followed. With her back to him, she opened the latch on the gate, and turned back one last time, wiped away tears from her cheek, and stroked his mane. She stepped aside, out of his path- and let the pony run. After all, he was no different than her- he was just some wild thing- and he didn’t owe her one damn thing anymore- he never did. It was the right thing to do.

She sat down in the dirt, right there by the gate, leaned her head back against the post- and closed her eyes.

All the Way {Back} to Me

The foamy sweat rolls under the curry comb as I watch each line the blade makes in the red color of your winter coat. It’s unusually warm for January. You cock your hip and lick your lips standing quietly, eyes slit against the sun. My hand runs through the course and knotted mix of gray, red, white, ambers, and black hair that makes up your mane. I let my knuckles catch in the knots and lean in, resting my head against you. I feel the weight of my thoughts dissipate, fading off with the gentle breeze and I just breathe.

I let the pungent, sweaty stench from your hide fill my nose. At this particular moment, I just feel- feel moments that have made up my life and how the horse played an ever present role in it. How you, my friend, Twist, brought me all the way back to me.

I don’t think you will ever know the scope of how you’ve impacted me; how you reminded me of what I once wanted to be. As life with horses does, or maybe just life in general, confidence came and went. I lost it. I didn’t have it anywhere in my life. Not as a mother, not as a wife, not as a woman, and certainly not as a horseman. I was no longer feeling like that carefree girl with life ahead to frivolously waste. I trembled at steps, stumbled over decisions, filled my head and heart with negativity, and shut the door on all sorts of dreams.

And then, there you were. I don’t remember the exact moment you brought me back to life- to the realization that love and forgiveness of myself was essentially the path back to being in love with horses again- in love with life. Perhaps it was a slow progression, a steep yearning inside to smile again… just a quiet reminder that I was a cowgirl- in my heart- in my spirit. All I needed was to put that foot in the stirrup, grab a hunk of mane, and swing back in the saddle.

Somehow, here with you in this moment, I look back on the last eight years with you- and I see you’ve taught me so much- you held that mirror up to my soul- you taught me to forgive- you taught me to trust- you brought me full circle, reminding me I can, reminding me to pick up the reins of life and ride for all it’s worth. You brought me all the way back to me.

I let the ebbing streaks of the remaining afternoon sun soak in. I look at you and the corners of my mouth begin to turn upward. Setting the brush down, I give you one last run over with my hand, untie the lead rope and lead you to the corral. Watching you roll three times all the way over and half way twice, and I just smile- the kind of smile a young cowgirl does when she’s just spent the day with her horse. Thank you, my old roan friend- For all those happy trails- the rocky pasts, the more assured present and the good Lord willing, the happiest of future miles…

Happy Trails-

Heather

Worn

Coming home always stirs up memories. Traveling down old roads in favorite, familiar places does that. I let my my mind run its course through those memories, linger in the dents and curves and worn edges of my heart and soul, and I just… smile.

It comes to mind that the best thing about these memories is that they feel comfortable and happy and worn… Worn like the faded color of the photograph of my grandpa smiling back from atop his favorite black and white pinto. Worn like the grayed and weathered wood Bob Marshall sign on top of Pyramid Pass. Worn like the leather on my saddle and the feel of old horsehair mecates. Worn like the miles on old roany down dust laden trails through mountain passes. Worn like Daddy’s bible and his hands from a hard day’s work and Mom’s favorite recipes in the family cookbook and the smile lines that etch the corners of her mouth. Worn like love that binds us all and has seen us through our best and our worst. Worn like my first old pick up truck and the dirt roads I drove down. Worn like the words carved on epitaphs of loved ones and hand written on cards from my grandma. Worn like the town I grew up in that made dollars on timber, that loved their neighbor and didn’t shut down their parking lots, and opened their doors to strangers. Worn like old friends and familiar smiles.

Worn. Memories worn so thin you could see straight through them. Memories so precious even when they’re just a little torn. I find the finer things don’t hold a candle to these worn memories because the finest things worth keeping are worn.

Make a lifetime of memories. John Lennon said it first… “Life is what happens when we’re busy making other plans.” Make worn memories.

Happy Trails~

Heather

{Real}

May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing view. May your mountains rise into and above the clouds, where something strange and more beautiful and more full of wonder than your deepest dreams waits for you…Edward Abbey

Inspired by a recent conversation with my sister-in-law, Breana, a beautiful, insightful and real soul. Love you, Sis.

Here we are, another year drawing to a close. It’s funny to look back on a year of your life…As I break my own down, analyze it, ponder it, cry over it, and finally, smile, I can honestly say that all the lofty goals I set out thinking I would accomplish, I didn’t. That book I was going to publish? Archived and still waiting. The money I was going to save? Spent. The weight I was going to lose? Huh uh. The house I was going to buy? Sold to another. The relationship I thought I could fix just one more time? Chapter closed.

And the funny thing is, I’m okay. I’m better than okay. That old cliche about when one door closes, another opens? That’s true. It’s just not the door I thought it would be. It didn’t come with a neon sign hanging above saying “choose me”. It was dark and shrouded with cobwebs. It was scary. And as I go back and reread all the little notes and sayings I’ve written over the past year, some for myself, and some for you, the notes of encouragement, the ones that said be true to you, the ones that said to hell with what others think, to live authentic… I realized I struggled taking my own advice. Maybe those lofty “better me” resolutions were complete horse shit. But I can also see where I put one foot in front of the other; where I took an extended hand that was held out; where I trusted my own heart; where I believed I could, so I did. And you know what? I’m the best me I’ve been in a long time.

So, onward to a new year. And I’m not making resolutions. I’m not. Because I’ll have setbacks and hard times, but I will embrace them. I will learn. But here’s what I will do. I will live in the moment more and not share it with the world. And when I do choose to share, I will make a conscious effort to share the real and authentic parts worth sharing; real photos of everyday real subjects and situations and words that are my own and not quoted, unless relevant. I’ve hit a quiet, reflective point in my life; maybe a more personal level. I want the things I share to reflect that. I want to repercuss love and reality, whether that’s good or not. I have a desire to be nothing but real, raw, and unfiltered and untouched. Just me. And if I’m doing so, I hope it enlightens something in my fellow 19 followers to do the same. Let’s unfake this world we live in. Let’s be real.

I hope 2018 is all you want it to be and more. I hope our trails really are crooked and winding and lonesome and dangerous. That’s the beauty of a real journey. And may you pause to take it all in along the way…

Happy Trails~

Heather

A Story Worth Tellin’

The following post is dedicated to and written for the Montana Cowboy Hall of Fame.

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“The idea is not to live forever. It is to create something that will.” ~Andy Worhol

As I was driving home yesterday, we passed our neighbor’s teams of black percherons standing together in the corral.  It was said to me, “that is something I could never get into or find the fun in.”  And I thought about that, and it hit me hard how much the world has changed into a fast and so-called improved pace of life.  And I slowed down, and I smiled to myself thinking, “I could.”

I hear it often. The “I don’t get it. I don’t understand why you hitch a team to feed cows when you have a perfectly good motorized vehicle at your disposal?  Why don’t you use a 4-wheeler instead of that cold-backed colt to night check those heifers? Who cares about seeing the Bob Marshall Wilderness from the back of a horse leading a string of mules?  What is the point of climbing on that bronc just to hit the dirt short of eight seconds?  I don’t get your ways.”

Here’s my answer to that…

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I say iron sharpens iron.  Sociologists may label the cowboy’s choices a lifestyle.  Psychologists may see it as obsessive to worry over critters and hay crops and good horses.  Economists just say it’s damn pointless to throw your money and effort after foolishness.  But as for the cowboy, well, he just calls it living.

What you get out of life is just what you put into it.  And the benefits of being a cowboy, well, words don’t suffice.  It’s a life well lived and even harder earned, but it’s tradition and knowledge and heritage. It’s a legacy made of generations of hard living, hard working men and women before that carved a life out of the coulees and mountains and sagebrush seas.  It’s fixing old, worn saddles and harness, not buying new.  It’s the satisfaction of a well-aimed heel loop on a wily calf to drag them to the branding fire. It’s knowing that young colt is gonna test your mettle, but if you gentle him right, you’ve got a good dancing partner. It’s knowing nothing is going to be handed down to you on a silver platter, and you wouldn’t want it to be anyway.  Because the grit in your gut and the try in your soul is what makes the man.

It’s honoring traditions, and taking time to listen to the old men that talk about the days of long ago.  It’s considering yourself lucky to look out over a herd of well-matched and bred angus in the heat of summer grazing. It’s blazing new backcountry trails on a fine mountain pony.  It’s helping your neighbor come branding time whether the cooking is any good or not.  It’s teaching the younger generation the meaning of a little hard work while getting dirt under their fingernails; it’s responsibility and knowing their roots. It’s about having a story worth telling at the end of the day.  It’s a legacy.

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So, I believe in the old cowboy ways.  The things a cowboy has are simple. It’s work ethic, appreciation for land, good stock, a hard-working partner, and good neighbors.  These traditions deserve to be preserved and honored.  Take the time to visit with an old cowboy or cowgirl. Look around at this Big Sky country with its Charlie Russell sunsets, and be grateful for the cowboy, the Native American, and the land that made them. Is your story worth tellin’?



Happy Trails,

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Heather

 

 

Hometown

days-gone-by_16812654352_oHometown. You spend the entirety of your childhood waiting for the day to leave this god-forsaken place just knowing there must be a bigger, better world out there awaiting you. And there possibly is.  But what you don’t realize at the time is you will come to miss what your hometown has truly manifested in your heart of hearts.  It won’t be a sense of success or money that you seek, but the first time you come back home after a long period of being gone, your heart will see what really mattered all along…A sense of comfort and belonging and stillness and peace. And most importantly, love.

It’s not much of a secret to anyone how much I miss home.  But I was ready to leave for a while when I did a few years back.  Ready for a change. I was one of the few of my graduating class that stayed.  I didn’t seek out grand college ideas, even though I wanted to be a large animal vet.  I didn’t mind bar tending and waiting tables and working odd jobs just to get by, because I always had my family and the ranch.  I had what I needed to feel fulfilled out my backdoor.  And then life changed. Family came along and bills needed paid, and it was evident that I had to do something about it, so moving happened. And I embraced every part of it.  I had to. Adventure and change finally awaited me, and there was no sense not meeting that change with arms wide open and a freshened heart ready to beat strongly.

And life went on in my hometown.  Without me.  And I thought, “I don’t miss it. It is always there to come back to.”  I still tell myself those things.  And with every drive back home, the  “I don’t miss it” turns into “I miss some things about it”.  And then phone calls come about people passing, family and friends and high school pals, and the “I miss some things about it” turns into “I miss home. Every damn day.”

16812880925_4783c52764_hWhen I walked through the doors of my favorite church this Christmas for service, I had a difficult time managing my tears and swallowing the lump in my throat.  It was joy and peace and love I felt.  The friendly faces, the “it’s so great to see yous”, the warm embraces, the “we miss yous”  and kind words.  Life went on, and some things changed, but the one constant was the goodness of what I always loved about my hometown hadn’t… the love of good people and their hometown hearts.

And I am forever grateful for my hometown. For the county lines that bring a smile to my face when I drive that familiar drive west.  I remember fondly the first kisses that happened here, the football field full of black and gold, and the smell of peanut butter and paste that greets my senses in the schools I grew up in.  I am grateful for those church pews and the warm and welcoming faces that don’t forget me.

I love the scent of pine that greets my nose, the mountains and the valleys that I intimately know; the back roads I drive to get lost on and with every little, winding mile I find another piece of me.  With every visit, I come back to life here. I realize that in leaving my hometown, this crazy, hectic world has given me sanctuary here.  A place to come back to, to right the wrongs, to remember my roots, and a place to just be me again.  A place to anchor in the storms of life.  A place that continuously welcomes me no matter the time that lapses.

Hometown hearts, they are the love that makes a place home.  And I am proud of the place I call home. Always and forever will be…

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Life, Live It

“The trouble is, you think you have time.” ~Buddha

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These past few weeks, I’ve once again found myself looking at life through a lens of loss and struggle and a gamete of emotions I am unable to reign in, and not even really wanting to try.  I’ve needed to feel the rawness of it, the deep love of my family, and not take one, single breath for granted.  It isn’t all sad, but I am learning to hi-light the good moments and savor them a little longer; letting them take the edge off the sadness that revolves around death and loss.  It also, as it well should, makes me reflect strongly on my personal journey in this one life I get. So this rambling is written out of a place of realness and vulnerability and projected out into this big, wide world for your interpretation and judgement, but also as a source of strength and perhaps a self-check.  What are you doing with this one life you have?   If a loved one were sitting at a desk tonight penning your obituary, what would they say about you?  

 The harsh reality of a death is that you dying doesn’t affect you, but impacts those left behind.  The hardest part isn’t saying goodbye to someone; it’s learning to live without them. It leaves a hole in a heart, it leaves an empty chair at a dinner table, it leaves words unsaid, it leaves dreams unfulfilled, it leaves a stillness and quiet that in fact echos off the walls of one’s mind & heart.   Your birth and your death are your bookends, your timeline, to squeeze in as much as one can into the book of life, and if you’re lucky, you get to write numerous chapters full of life lived through good times and bad.  The truth is, we are all pushing the time we have in this world. So I ask you again? What would those left behind have to say about this one life you lived?

Were you strong because you knew your weaknesses?  Were you beautiful because you knew your flaws? Were you fearless because you knew it was your chance to fly?  Were you wise because you learned from your mistakes?  Did you love because you felt hate?  Did you laugh because you knew sadness? Did you live with a sense of urgency?  Did you share your heart unselfishly?

 Maybe the real tragedy isn’t in fact our death, but what we let die inside of us while we lived.  Because, the trouble is, we think we have time.  We think we can tell someone we love them later, we think we can take our kids fishing another time,  we can take that Sunday drive in that old pick-up truck another day, we can mend that broken fence later. Guess what… we don’t always get that time.

I don’t want to leave this world with doubts, or worse, leaving anyone else doubting. I want to use up every minute, and I want that to be my legacy.  I want my obituary to be so full of good things, ornery sentiments, integrity, honesty, smiles and tears and love, not for me, not for my memory, but as a comfort and a reminder to those left behind. A reminder that you have this one life, so live it.  

The gate only opens once to that ol’ rodeo of life. You might as well spur the hell out of that bronc and just let ‘er buck!

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Happy Trails,

Heather

Cowgirl, Who Are You When the World Ain’t Lookin’?

I will admit, I’m a people watcher. I find myself intrigued and wondering what makes up the character of a person. As women, we often feel threatened by what we perceive other women to be. We measure ourselves strongly against other’s physical appearance, by successes, by well-behaved children, by the cars we drive, by relationship statues, by friendships, and facebook posts. We constantly strive to measure up. And sadly, I catch myself doing the same. In that acknowledgement, I also realize that life is so often not what it seems. Every single one of us has a unique story, has scars, lives with fear, smiles through tears, or has a chapter in our life story we don’t read aloud. This realization levels the playing field.  We’re in this life together to help each other, inspire one another, cry with one another, and embrace our differences. 

So, that is where the following rambling came from, knowing we all have secret hopes and unfulfilled dreams. I challenge you to not compare your uniqueness to another, to look deeper than the surface of yourself and others, erase expectations and preconceived notions, and see the heart and soul of someone. Read between the lines. You may be surprised what you find you can relate to…

Cowgirl, who are you when the world ain’t looking begging you to be all it expects you to be? What are your hopes and dreams? What do you see when you look in the mirror? Are you happy with what you’ve come to be? Do you beat yourself up because you think you’ve failed? Do you like who you see? Are you still searching, longing to find your voice down deep inside? Are you happy, really truly happy and feel life is as it should be?

Are you looking for love? Are you married and struggling to reconnect? Do you still long to find your childhood love and ride off into a sunset? Are you missing someone? Their touch? Their smile? Their laugh? Do you ask if love will ever be? Do you have good friends? Or do prefer to just be?

Who are you, cowgirl, when this old world ain’t looking, waiting for you to make your next move? When it’s not asking you to be what you don’t want to be? Do you close the chapter on your book of life that hurts too much to read? Do you hate yourself for your mistakes? Do you wish you could just change everything? Anything? Just that one thing? Do you have regrets? Do you share unselfishly your gifts and talents with others, or tuck it away in safety away from the world’s harsh reality? Do you know who you really want to be? Do you rise up? Do you try again? Do let it all go? Do you let it be what it will be?

Are you hardened or closed because you’ve built walls to guard your heart? Do you cry for no reason at all? Are you sick? Are you tired? Are worried about it all?

Hey cowgirl, who are you when the world ain’t looking?

Do you dance in your underwear and sing in the rain? Do you drink wine straight from the bottle? Do you like your whiskey straight? Do you paint your nails red, bright, shiny red because it makes you feel pretty? Do you let your hair down, or cut it off because you just need a change?

Do you hike a thousand miles through the wilderness just to know your real heart?  Do you love whomever you want? Do you raise babies, and ride broncs? Do you work at your passion? Or just a job to get by?

Do trail cattle on the  calico prairies and sagebrush sea? Do you let that wild horse run? Do you let your lungs breathe the mountain air deep? Do you travel the world to see through new eyes? Do you put down roots and watch them grow? What is your story? Why?

Cowgirl, be who you want to be anytime, anywhere… Even if this world is watching, do just as you care.  Quit waiting, quit wondering. Just get out there and live, cause this one life ain’t waiting on you, so why are you waiting on it?

Happy Trails, Cowgirl~

Heather ©