“Once I fall in love, then I'll be happy
But then you fall in love and there's still a hole
Once I get some money, it'll all be easy
But then you get that money, you still feel broke.”
“Once I get a little older, I won't worry
Then you get older, and it don't feel like it should…”
—Lauren Alaina, "Getting Good"
I’d spent the morning pushing a hundred head of cows off of the bottom fences and back up the draw, where I hoped they’d stay for at least one day before I had to step into the exact same dance again. After the summer we’d had, I was sure it wouldn’t be this way again this year.
It was the last week in September, and I had nearly two full weeks before the cows had to be off the mountain. It had been the best grass year we’d seen in over two decades. Every time we moved the cows from one unit to the next, we’d leave more grass than I’d ever remembered. The cows were in good shape and the calves were fat. From all indications, the market was going to remain strong, and I knew this would be the year I’d make money on the fat cattle still in the yard, as well as the calves we’d ship later that fall. Things were finally getting good.
But the warm weather and abundant feed notwithstanding, this legion of cows figured it was time to go home, and here I was again, just as I always seemed to be, fighting the same old battles I’d fought before, with very dim prospects of victory. As I sent the dogs up the hill after a couple of cows who seemed hell-bent on hugging the bottom, I could feel my hopeful optimism of the summer slip off into the wind that carried the yellow aspen leaves with it over the top of the ridge. I knew I’d spend a good share of my time in the coming week sparring with these very same cows. I tried not to let the thought linger too long, but with every tiny frustration, it would sneak back into my thought stream. Maybe things are not really meant to “get good.”
Just like the opening lines of the Lauren Alaina song suggest, it sometimes seems that the attainment of every notable milestone may really only lead to another disappointment. So what is the point of hope? What is the point in gratitude if the end of each journey is nothing more than the start of another? Well, my friends, through the innumerable odysseys my life has offered me, I’ve figured out why you should listen to the whole song, ride to the top of the hill, finish the book or at least just keep moving with the smallest flicker of hope.
“I'm thinking once I learn to grow right where I'm planted
Maybe that's when life starts getting good.”
Now, I’m not suggesting all of life’s ills can be cured by adhering to the oversimplified message of an obscure country song, but I am most certainly asserting that your current unfortunate situation, or even your past overwhelming failures, need not be your defining moments. One of the most enduring thoughts I’ve always been able to hook my every sinking star to is the notion that hope floats. I’ve come to accept that as an unsinkable truth. No matter the brilliance at the mountain’s summit nor the darkness and despair of the deepest pit, hope is an inextinguishable light, made ever brighter by gratitude for the good things. And the brighter that light is allowed to shine, the higher hope will lift you.
In the midst of my gloom on that late September day, I looked up the hill as the wayward cows, encouraged by the diligence of my dogs, dutifully trotted up to join the herd. I gave a sharp whistle to the dogs. The pup of the bunch stopped in his tracks, whipped his head around to look at me with a gleam in his eye, ever hopeful of my approval. His eager, if often misguided, exuberance made me smile. I whistled again and three dogs came bounding down to greet me at my horse’s feet. “Good dogs,” I said, grateful for the simple fact that they came back to me. At that moment, my gratitude hooked onto the hope floating just above the ridgeline.
Even if I had to do the same thing, with the exact same cows tomorrow, I knew it would be a good day for a ride.
