A Letter

I received a handwritten letter in the mail yesterday.

Without even opening it, I know who wrote it and when.

I did.

At the end of a ranching workshop last year, the presenter asked all of us to write a letter to ourselves, to remind ourselves of our goals and our abilities.

He would mail our letters one year to the day later.

Ironically, my letter arrived the day I was cleaning the shop.

Cleaning brings clarity to memories.

My recent memories are clearly divided between the last day my husband, Steve, was alive and the first day he was dead.

For better or worse, some things have changed since he was here.

We no longer have a Missionary Bridge – one where only the truly faithful dared to cross it.

Water runs uphill to a corral Steve built.

The bunkhouse and Grandma’s House both have functional roofs.

I’ve weathered four calving seasons and still have a few calves bounce up off the ground each spring.

Last year, I signed a 5-year deal to buy hay that had me worried about my financial judgement but made me feel pretty smart when hay prices tripled this year.

But I’m still working on reducing my need for hay in the first place.

Last spring, I asked a friend to subdivide some pastures with new fence.

Those new, solid fences confuse my cattle and sheep every day.

I hired an apprentice.

For the very first time, I paid an employee.

We worked together on several projects, and she finished up an amazing number of loose ends, yet somehow, I didn’t make much time to see my friends while she was here.

My apprentice started law school and I figured out that it is okay to socialize while she works or, even better, it is okay to give her time off when I take time off to soak up the summer.

I bought a building. I’ve never been a landlord before.

I invited strangers to the ranch to talk about range management, then I panicked at the drought conditions, the dismal bare ground, the mess around the shop and barn.

This ranch is so much a part of me that its condition reflects my condition, determines my value.

The day I showed off my cheatgrass – the scourge of every rancher – to people I respect and hope to impress, I realized if I admit my secret shortcomings, other people have permission to admit theirs, too.

Secrets hold immense power and suck immense energy as I try to keep them from bubbling into the daylight.

Secrets suck almost as much energy as sucking in my tummy while I wear a bikini.

The simple solution is to avoid wearing a bikini.

After I found my letter in the mailbox, I stepped into my backyard to find a stellar crop of apples this year.

I had absolutely nothing to do with this crop.

It reminds me that life goes on, with or without my influence. I try to make my surroundings a little better, but they survive just fine without me, too.

Last year’s workshop emphasized focus.

Focus on the aspects of the ranch that actually make money and then grow those.

Focus on efficient production and find ways to make it more efficient.

Focus on quality of life -- spend time with those you love, doing things that make you happy.

I’m not sure I focused, but I learned a lot about choosing happiness and I am trying to improve efficiency.

As I cleaned my shop, I reminded myself that this shop is far from perfect, but it is on an upward trajectory, just as my ranch and my relationships are.

I think I’ll open that letter now.