When I was working as a ranch foreman, I would spend a lot of the “free” time I had visiting the stables and the horse pasture. No, not for some cute someone or other, but for the sheer magnificence of the equine. Two in particular. Morgan and Hayburner.

While I may have had the title of ranch foreman and grown up a farm boy, I know and knew very little about horses. I did know that I was fascinated by them.

Morgan. What an enormous horse. Morgan was a draft horse. He weighed every bit of 1800 pounds and stood 17 hands at the withers. What an amazing and powerful animal. Nothing ever phased him. Nothing scared him. He could pull a wagon with 20 adults. He was bread for it, it was every bit genetic definition. Riding him was like mounting a sofa.

Hayburner. A beautiful paint horse. As the name suggested he was a runner. As a fellow lover of the wind through my hair, I wanted to ride him.

The thing was, Hayburner and Morgan had developed afflictions. Morgan knew he was a king. He was an upkeep nightmare. He had to be fed constantly. Fresh water. Stable cleaned. Brushed. To do all of this he had his own little entourage to do so. In exchange for being called upon every once in a while. He knew it too.

The first chance I had to ride Hayburner was an experience. I had been in the barn and found him in the corral. The gates were open and I had a little time. The stable manager gave me a nod of approval as I glanced at him. He knew. He knew more than I did and that was what I was about to learn. I put a bridle on him,saddled him and all was well. As I got on him, things changed. It was as if he all the glory I had envisioned was immediately drained in an instant. I as tried to lead him from the corral, he fought me the entire time. As I entered the pasture and he calmed a bit, I thought that we had perhaps come to an understanding that he was about to be ridden in a manner that would send the wind through our hair as we gracefully strode through the pasture. I kicked him into gear and what happened next was nothing I was ready for.

It was an abrupt stride, a fevered trot, a jump, head shaking and frantic zig-zags. It was more bronco-esque than anything else. I was not sure what was happening, but I did know that something was wrong. This ride was anything but graceful. It was frantic and exhausting. The amount of strength, balance and energy it takes to stay on a beast like is pale by comparison to the will to stay on and stay alive as this 1200 pound animal is obviously intent of being without a rider.

At the top of the pasture, his run had ended. He was done whether or not I had other intentions or not. I was not an experienced rider by any stretch of the imagination and the only way I stayed on at that time was because I was strong enough to do so. But when he rose on his back legs I was done for and tried to be as graceful as possible while falling off the horse. There is no graceful way to do it while avoiding the prospect of falling on a prickly pear cactus or pile of manure.

But it was inevitable and it was now gravity’s turn to take me for a ride.

There I lay, staring up and taking it all in my vision was tainted, by pride a little battered and left wondering “what the hell” as I saw Hayburner run gracefully in great strides back to the corral.

One of the stable hands, Bobbi came by to check on me as she saw the whole thing. She asked if I was “ok”, I said “sure.” I got up and my gaze returned to that horse standing in the corral. We stood there in silence for a moment and then I heard it. “barn sour” I said “what?” and that’s where I learned it.

The king and the runner extraordinaire by birthrights now prefer the pampering of the stable. The giant is only ever needed for presence and the occasional heavy lifting. The trailblazing maverick prefers not to run but be saddled and walked in circles for little kids while the King pulls them on a wagon. All at the end of the day to return to their stable. Their barn.

I hate the barn. The stasis of safety. The numbing effect of placitude. The absence of the challenge. That is perhaps my genetic birthright for being borne under the sign of Aries and believing that I truly am physically composed of the same things as the stars. A soul that begs for the challenge and believes that we all belong in the heavens from where whence came from, where we were all borne.

That’s what plagues me. It is not a change. Not a crazy Ivan. It is the absence of the challenge. The fight. A fight. Challenge me. Beat me. Make me work for it. Give me something to make me cry with a passion borne from the conquering of my deepest fears. Make me burn hells hot by screaming a demons battle cry that has laid dormant for far too long. All the while stirring the souls of a legion of believers that they are their own destiny and need only stoke the smoldering embers in that dark quiet corner of their dormant souls.

But, I know as I mature and lace my star dust borne bones with wisdom forged from the fires of the successful traverse of life’s passing moments my greatest fight in within the cage I have built for that soul of mine. It is patience and a steady go that takes care of most of the everyday in today’s world.

My battle cry is the success of surviving the next 49 days in a behavioral stasis of sorts. That means being calm. Working through the challenge instead of resorting to the call of the hell borne behaviors of my past.

Sun Tzu said “Victorious warriors win first and then go to war, while defeated warriors go to war and seek to win” The kid from the Matrix told Neo “There is no spoon”.

Translation? Fix your broken head. Find your purpose and hold it close. Fight for it. Win for it.

Perspective, Perception, Perseverance and Patience are friends that never stray. While they hangout in different places they all hang together…Perspective’s perch form the back of an eagle….Perception’s pogo stick bouncing from one side of the line to another…..Perseverance’s peace inside the circle of knowing the win by abiding to their strong values…. and in the un”soured” barn Patience’s clever plan to keep them all ready to give their battle cry once more and remind all that “there is no barn.”