Sometimes in life, the whisperer inside of myself whispers sweet nothings of my potential. Those sweet nothings I have interpreted as “only if it would be” and I would move on with my life “not if it would be” seeing that potential in myself.
I spoke of my poem, The Whisper, in my last blog post, My First Love. I wanted you all to read it firsthand. All those crinkles in the paper are due to me folding it nice and neat and sliding it into the slim front pocket of my Rockies. Ya’ll know that Rockies are the tight jeans cowgirls wear, with no pockets on the back. Yeah, those.
When I was volunteering for Riding Unlimited, an equine-assisted therapy center in north Texas, the Board of Directors approved my poem, The Whisperer, as the gift to Monty Roberts of the PBS special, The Man Who Listens to Horses. I covered all this in the last blog post.
Anywho… It’s the poem that started life for me. You see, I put myself out there. After Monty did a join up demonstration, I watched the long line of admirers waiting to get an autographed copy of his book. Finally, the line diminished at evening’s end and I took my place.
I stood face-to-face with him and introduced myself as the author of the poem we were giving him as a thank you for his donation. I’ll never forget the look on his face. His gaze fixed on me as if committing me to memory. You know that feeling you get when someone actually pays attention to you? You’re real to them? He was a man of few words. He was a man of action. Heck, the previous day “the strawberry roan of Dallas” took the end of his finger off during a demonstration before a crowd. He finished the event while the hospital had his finger waiting on ice to reattach it.
The only person I’ve known with that level of intention is a Navy Seal. Failure is simply non-existent for them. Their whisperer doesn’t say “only if” or “not if”. I believe they see what’s before them and they take care of it. Which is what I did in getting my own autographed copy of my poem. I put out a communication line from my own personal being. I was recognized as such. That’s why this poem has a lot of mileage for me in personal growth.
I find that people will give to a person if they have someone to give to.
I’ve also learned that all actions I take have a kernel of truth in them, an expression of me. Any whisperer that says anything less is not a whisperer. It’s a toxic recording of messages that play of times I fell for the gag of someone convincing me that I should be like the notion they told of themselves—a nothing. Now, I know the lie.
I am truth!
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