You know how, when you’re growing up, there is no place you’d rather be than “not here”?  I visited the following fantasies on a regular basis (when I was supposed to be paying attention in church, at school, or driving):

• Rodeo clown (I think this spawned from an unfortunate incident with my Uncle who sat on the fence and had me move bulls on foot… when I was 10… which had predictable results.  However, because I managed to do a super-human leap over the fence before I was gored to death, I thought bull-fighting might be an option.)
• Professional surfer living out of my pick-up truck (despite the fact that I’d never surfed, been to the ocean once, and there were no horses involved as near as I could tell)
• First female team-roper in the NFR (even though the only things I’d successfully roped were roping dummies and the family milk goat)
• Owning a quarter horse ranch in Montana (this fantasy largely involved a barn full of horses and a lot of line-dancing)
• Owning a quarter horse ranch in Australia (see above, but add an accent)
• Owning any property in New Zealand (see above, but with a slightly different accent, and horses)
• Being a writer (some dreams never die)
• Running the biggest herd of cattle in the world (I think this fantasy was the result of reading a slightly over-dramatized book about Ben Snipes, and his career running cattle from The Dalles up to British Columbia, which sounded nothing short of the Best.  Job.  Ever.)
• Riding a horse from the east coast to the west coast (because, who does that?)
• Living in a teepee in the mountains (admit it, you’ve fantasized about that. but did you also fantasize about having your own watermill and everything?)
• Living on a sailboat (though I couldn’t quite figure out where I’d put the horses)
• Helicopter pilot
• Truck driver
• Kept woman

All of those fantasies involved a shit-ton of miles between myself and here.  When friends would say, “there’s no opportunity here” or “this place is too small” it never resonated with me.  I loved the comfort and peace of living in a small town, just not this one.  I’ve always believed that opportunity is where you make it, but I backed it with the belief that it better not friggin’ happen here.

My biggest quibble with being here was that I just couldn’t seem to shake “myself.”  For some of us, there is a lot of tension between who we are and who we want to be.  As a youngster, that tension is amplified.  We feel sensitive about the gap between the glorious “i” we want to be, and the awkward “me” we were.  I maintained high hopes that if I left this place I could be free of who I was and become who I wanted.  Don’t we all?  Is that the “opportunity” we seek?  To be given a chance, despite ourselves?  I mean, we want to be given a chance because of ourselves, but if that fails, shouldn’t we be given a chance despite ourselves?  (and this explains welfare, lottery, etc.)

There’s a great line from an episode of Sex and the City where Carrie says, “Maybe we’re just “should-ing” all over ourselves” or something like that, where she changes “shit” to “should”.  Yeah, now THAT “should” resonates.

I said all of that to say, some “shoulds” just don’t matter.  Sometimes we “should” a lot more than we “do”.  So, I’m happily sitting here doing my “shoulds”  — riding horses, spending time with a great man, exploring the long list of “shoulds”, and it turns out that the safest place to do this is here.  Now.  With an imperfect set of circumstances, yet the perfect, MOST perfect place to be. I have a husband, horses, dogs, family, and bosses who see my “coulds” and less of my “shoulds”.

The best place to be isn’t away from problems, but in a place where problems are forgivable.  Where mistakes are labeled as “discoveries” and flaws are labeled as “opportunities”.  It’s not as easy as it sounds.  You have to pick people in your life who can see in you the way “discoveries” and “opportunities” abound.  It’s multidimensional.  It’s not just “oh, she solves problems”  It’s, “she solves this problem, yet I can help her in THAT way.” And, you have to see others that way.  You can’t get that treatment without dishing it out.  That’s the hardest part.  We want to expect grace for our “shoulds” yet that is the exact amount of “should” we need to offer.

Here I am, in a place I couldn’ t wait to leave, feeling the safest I’ve ever felt in my life.  I couldn’t even tell you how I arrived here.  I can only tell you this: embrace “shoulds” and embrace “shits” — they’re not that far apart.

I hope and pray that you, too, sit at your kitchen table on Sunday morning and say, “Sweet Mother of God, I am Lucky.”.”

I’m sure by now you’ve been Kony2012′d.  Me too.  But wait, we should go back in time a little…

It was 2000, I’d been in South East Asia for a couple of weeks, and pretty much made a bee-line to Burma.  One day I was wandering the dirt streets of Nyaungshwe and ended up at an orphanage on the outskirts of town.

“Would you like a tour?” asked a nun at the gate.
“Well, okay, sure.”  I wasn’t sure I should do it.  I mean, there are a multitude of reasons, the most glaringly obvious being that I was a smelly hippy backpacker on a 5-dollar-a-day budget, and wasn’t really looking to adopt a child.  I had visions of the children fighting over the lone spigot in the washroom, trying to get cleaned up and looking presentable for their visitor, in hopes of being adopted and taken to America.  Would I summarily reject all of them in one fell swoop if I left the orphanage without a child? Would I traumatize them, and do more harm than good just by showing up?

I asked the nun about that, and she assured me that they loved to have visitors just for the company. We arranged a time for me to come back later that day.

I walked back to town, past a little sugar cane field, past houses where the children and adults rush out to see the foreigner, in hopes of touching the fine blonde hairs on my arms.  I thought, “You know what kids in the orphanage would like, what would be a great treat for them?  Candy!  I’ll buy a bag of candy!  I’ll hand it out and wow, won’t that just make their day?”  I was going to give the orphanage a big ol’ ray of sunshine in a cellophane bag.  And, being not entirely altruistic, it appealed to my ego.  I was going to be a mothafuckin’ Mother Teresa!  Hell yes, the pied piper of the orphanage with my toothy smile and bag of candy.

You know how you get a really good idea, one that makes you all warm and fuzzy, like you could really make a change?  And you get super excited, and you feel like you’re six years old and are pretty sure that the spare change on your bedroom floor (the pennies you haven’t eaten yet) is enough to buy a pony?  That feeling that absolutely anything is possible, that anything is possible FOR YOU?

Ever notice how, as a kid, that feeling about a subject like pony acquisitions could last you for freakin’ days?  Yet, the older we get, the shorter the duration for that feeling.  Then you hit 30 and you are so full of “pragmatic wisdom” that the enthusiasm for possibility is fleeting at best and you usually confuse it with the flu or maybe a food allergy. I started thinking of all the ways that I was a really lousy representation of Mother Teresa, and really of humans in general.  By the time I got back to my room I was so demoralized that I considered not returning to the orphanage.  But damn, what kind of message would that send the kids if they all lined up and waited, and I never showed up?

I knew what it would say about me.  It’d say that if I didn’t believe I could make the change that needed to happen and adopt every one of those kids, I shouldn’t even show up.  Here’s a confession: I’m frequently caught thinking and behaving that way.  It turns out, showing up is the biggest part of the battle.  If I can’t fix it, I want to ignore it, to find reasons not to even deal with it.

I went back to the orphanage for my tour.  I didn’t take candy, since I’d been accosted by a handful of children in town begging for candy and realized I’d be really screwing up the orphans by teaching them that tourists are mobile vending units.  I decided that the very best I had to offer was to learn every child’s name, and to take their picture. I forced myself to show up.

I swear to God and chocolate that I have a point.  That is this: the KONY 2012 campaign is a reminder that you have something to offer, even if what you have is not a solution.  Don’t let your pragmatic wisdom — the wisdom that tells you you’re wasting your time — keep you from getting involved in something that gives you that little flush to your skin.  It’s not a food allergy.  It’s your inner 6-year-old who still thinks that anything is possible, and THAT is the kid you need to be giving candy to. (or maybe something a little more healthful, but not broccoli because it’ll make him/her gassy.)

So, the KONY 2012 thing isn’t your bag.  You think it’ll take more than clicking on a “Like” button to stop a Ugandan dictator.  I actually think you’re wrong.  I think “showing up” is what KONY 2012 is all about.

I’m really not advocating KONY 2012 specifically (although, I clicked the shit outta that Like button).  It’s just the event that triggered this post.  What I’m really latching onto is the power of showing up for whatever it is that you’ve talked yourself out of, whatever your dream or desire may be.

As for me, I’m going to make it a habit to show up.  And, I’m bringing my inner 6-year-old.  As I recall, she kicked ass.