Take A Feel

Sarah Forst reflects on finding fake sunflowers from a short-lived relationship in a junk drawer. She recalls a poignant memory with a horse named Socks, realizing the parallels between the two experiences. Through conversations with her mentor, Karen, she learns about seeking answers and certainty, realizing the importance of being present and embracing uncertainty. Sarah acknowledges her tendency to seek the whole circle instead of appreciating the two steps. She shares her current confusion and self-awareness, embracing the moment before clarity. Sarah is learning to stay present and accept the unknown, paralleling her experiences with the horse, the sunflowers, and her current emotions. Hi, my name is Sarah Forst, and this is Pressure and Release. So, I found a bouquet of fake sunflowers in a junk drawer the other day, which sounds romantic in a cheesy sort of way, until I tell you that they've been there for three years, and that the man who gave them to me was only in my life for about three weeks. Which, yes, that is very disproportionate. Three years ago, this young man climbed into my truck wearing cowboy boots with this cute little smirk flooding his face, carrying a bouquet of sunflowers. And before I could even really look at him, he handed them to me and apologized that they weren't real. And I looked down at them and then back at him and then back at the flowers, and I thought, fake? No one had ever given me flowers before, at least not like that, not a man that was making me all giddy and that I kind of had a crush on. It was wonderful, and I remember feeling touched and smiling, and I also remember swallowing really hard and that gurgling sensation in the back of my throat that kind of trickled down into my chest. Because they were fake, and it was wonderful, and they were fake, and somehow both of those things were true at the same time. I've been thinking about that swallow since I found the bouquet, and I probably wouldn't have remembered or noticed it if I didn't find these flowers. But as I found them and I was holding them, I remembered that feeling, that sensation, that tightening in my throat, that experience of being deeply touched and disappointed at the same time. And I realized that I'd felt that before, not with a man, with a horse. At the time, I was 16, and I was in a round pen with my mentor, Karen, and a horse, Socks, or Socrates. And Karen asked me to lead Socrates in a large circle. And as I began, he started walking really quickly, and he came around my right side and cut in front of me and was making me arch the circle before I wanted to, if that makes sense. I was nervous, for sure, this thousand-pound being with a mind of its own. And Karen said to me, Look in the direction you want to lead and walk. And so I brought my gaze to this fence post in the distance, and I looked and I started walking, and it was going well for maybe about two seconds until my eyes met the ground again, and I heard Karen, Look in the direction you want to lead and walk. And my eyes went right back to that fence post and right back down to the ground. Karen walked over, and she took the lead rope, and she said, Look in the direction you want to lead, take a feel, and ask. And I don't know who stepped first. It was at the same time. And I think about this moment all the time. They just moved together. And she took him in this large circle and came to a stop. She handed the rope back to me and said, Look in the direction you want to lead and walk. And so I looked at that fence post one more time, and I felt the rope, the energy connecting me and Socks. And my intention was to walk forward, and we took two steps and stopped. And my eyes started pulling up like if I blinked, tears were just going to roll down my face. And that big swallow that gurgling like sensation that just kind of like comes up your throat, but then like down into your chest. I felt that again. And Karen said to me, Easy does it, kid. Those two steps were everything. I closed my eyes, and tears were rolling down my face, and I was ready to quit. I was ready to hand Karen the lead rope and tell her I couldn't do it. And Socks just stood there, and the rope hung. And my whole body just felt like it was coming apart, like I was shrinking. I didn't understand it then, and honestly, I'm really not sure I understand it now. What I do know is that when I found those sunflowers sitting in this junk drawer, three years later, this was the memory that came back, like not a date or a relationship, a horse, a lead rope, a girl staring at the ground, trying to get something to move. I've been thinking about that girl a lot lately, because every now and then, I still catch myself looking at the ground. Not always literally, though. Probably literally, too. Just wanting something to move, wanting certainty, wanting to know what happens next. For someone to hand me a map and tell me, yeah, that's the right way. And instead, all I seem to get are these opportunities to practice the same lesson. Look where you want to go, take a feel, and ask. And the thing Karen never told me was that, was what happens after the ask. What happens when the horse takes two steps and stops? What happens when someone smiles back, or when they don't, or when I don't know? And maybe she didn't or couldn't tell me, because that's the part nobody can tell you. What if that's the relationship? The rope, the horse, the flowers, the space between two beings, and the strange and humbling act of staying present long enough to see what moves. Those two steps were everything. I hated that answer. I really did, because I didn't want two steps. I wanted the whole damn circle. I wanted the horse to come. I wanted to do it right. And years later, I'm beginning to suspect most of my suffering comes from demanding the whole circle. Wanting to know where something is going before it's gone there. Wanting an answer before life is finished asking the question. And maybe that's why I kept the flowers, and why I still think about Socrates, and why some questions stay with me longer than their answers. I don't know. What I do know is that somewhere between a horse, a lead rope, and a bouquet of fake sunflowers, I keep running into the same thing. That space between what's happening and what's not happening. I keep running into the same thing. That space between what's happening and what I want to happen. And every time I think I've figured it out, life hands me another two steps. A few years after that experience with Socrates, I found myself on the phone with Karen. And this time we weren't talking about horses, we were talking about fake sunflower guy. Or at least I thought we were. I was heartbroken. I was trying to understand why he had disappeared, or ghosted me, or trying to figure out what happened, replaying the conversations we had, looking for clues, trying to solve him. To solve the whole bit. And the funny thing is when I think back or feel back on that period of my life, I don't remember talking about ordinary things. We talked about the sun. And interestingly, his name meant the place where the light first strikes. And we talked about purpose, and life, and meaning, and God, and all these big things. Like these kinds of conversations that would make me feel like I'm brushing up against something really important. And somewhere along the way, without really realizing it, I think I stopped relating to him as a person, and I turned him into an idea. Or an image. A symbol. Maybe even an answer. Which is a lot to put on a guy. I remember pacing around my room while I talked to Karen, and I finally took a seat at my desk, and I put my swollen face down on my desk. And my arms were encapsulating my head. And I was just beat. It had been days of being really upset. I was trying to understand why it hurt so much. And I was just talking at her. I really wasn't talking to her. And she interrupted me. And she asked, Why would you settle for a lightbulb when there is the sun? Girl, what did you just say? I love that question so much. I love that question so much because it made me explode from the center of whatever I was thinking about. Whatever story I was telling myself, and it brought me back to this breath. This desk, the floor beneath my feet. I was no longer orbiting him. I was here. And I think about this sometimes, especially when I notice myself trying to solve something. Or someone. And lately, if I'm being really honest, I've noticed it again. That old hook shining again. And the funny thing is, nothing has happened. There's been a little eye contact, a couple awkward moments, conversation here or there. Nothing I can point to. Enough though to recognize the sensation, that gurgling in my throat. The reaching, the wanting to know. Know what it means. Know where it's going. Know what happens next. And then I recognized it. The feeling. Not him, the feeling. That same feeling that had me turning a fan into the sun. The same feeling that had me standing in a round pen, wanting the whole damn circle. The same feeling that had me pacing on the phone with Karen, looking for answers. And not because those moments were the same. They weren't. The flower wasn't the question and the horse wasn't the man. But something in me was the same. I wanted answers, I wanted certainty, I wanted the whole damn circle. And now, I don't know, I really don't. And that's why I'm talking about this. Because I don't know what this is. I don't know where I'm going. I don't know what happens next. And maybe that's what feels so different. That I don't know. And that, just for once, I'm noticing the hook while it's still shining. And I haven't gotten my mouth caught in it. At least not yet. And honestly, maybe that's another reason I'm talking about this. To document the moment before. Because usually when I tell these stories or write these stories, they're already over. The horse is seven years, the flower's in the heartbreak three. And this one is still in the happening. Raw, breathing. Or maybe not happening. Which, honestly, is part of the problem. I don't know. Maybe six months from now, I'll listen back to this and think, kid, there it was. Or maybe six months from now, I'll be just as confused as I am right now, which feels equally possible. Which honestly is a funny thing to say. Which honestly is a funny thing to say. Because six months from now is exactly where my wine wants to go. Not here. Not recording this podcast or this feeling. Six months from now. And I'm realizing that's the same thing Karen, like that same experience Karen was trying to create in that round pen. Because she never said, make the horse come. She said, take a feel and ask. Look in the direction you want to lead. Take a feel and ask. Which sounds really simple until you're the one holding the rope. Because how do I know when I'm asking? And how do I know when I've started pulling? I remember standing there with the lead rope in my hands and thinking, okay, what does she mean? How much feel? How much ask? What if I can't tell the difference between asking and wanting? And what if I can't tell the difference between wanting and pulling? And what if I've been pulling this whole time and calling it asking? I don't know. I genuinely don't know. And maybe that's why I keep thinking about Socrates. Because he knew. The second I pulled, he knew. Or if I got ahead of myself, he knew. Or the second I stopped paying attention, he knew. And I could say right here that people are a little harder than that. But maybe that's the wrong question. Because I think the questions I've been asking my whole life is like, how do I know? How do I know what it means? How do I know where it's going? How do I know if it's real? How do I know if I should trust it, trust myself? And when I was standing in that round pen, Karen wasn't asking me to know. She was asking me to feel. And maybe Socrates didn't know. Maybe he just felt it. Felt me. I don't know. Maybe he felt the tension in the rope. The tension in me. Or the way I wanted him to move. The way I wanted to get it right. The way I wanted the whole damn circle. But maybe Socrates didn't care about my story. And maybe he only really cared about what was actually happening. And honestly, what was actually happening? What was happening in me? My face was really hot. And my throat was tight. And my eyes kept finding the ground. And my eyes were pooling up with tears. And thinking about standing there all these years later, I wonder if that's what Socrates felt. The wanting. Although, to be fair, I'm not Socrates. And if there's one thing horses have never been particularly good at, it's explaining themselves. So maybe I'm going to stick to my side of the rope. Because whatever was happening with him, I can only speak to what was happening with me. And on my side of the rope, there was definitely wanting. There was definitely wanting. Let's actually slow down for a moment. And take a feel. So, the wanting appears. Or maybe desiring. I'm not sure. Something appears. A pull, a curiosity, a reaching. And then what? That right there, that's what I'm interested in. Not the wanting, desiring, what happens next. Because if I look back on moments in my life, the desiring seems pretty innocent. Struggle usually starts with what I do after. What I do next. The stories, the orbiting. Or maybe not, I don't know. That's why I'm asking. What exactly is an ask? I've been turning that over because it feels like more than a question. When Karen had told me to ask in that pen with Socrates, she wasn't telling me to say words. She was asking me to reveal something. To reveal where I was facing and the direction I wanted to go. To reveal what I wanted, what I desired. And maybe that's why I found it so difficult. Because what happens when I reveal where I'm facing? And what happens when another being can see it? Just the direction. I don't know. Part of me wants to jump straight to what happens next. Whether the horse moves closer, the person moves closer, or anything moves at all. But maybe that's me getting ahead of myself again. Trying to get the whole damn circle before life has finished drawing it. And because before any of that happens, something else has already happened. I've revealed the direction I want to lead. And that's a really vulnerable thing to do. Because the moment I reveal the direction, I can no longer pretend I don't care. I can no longer pretend I'm indifferent or detached or above it. Here I am, facing something. Interested, curious, wanting, desiring, looking and leading. Not because I'm guaranteed to get it or because it'll even move. Because it's true. And maybe that's why my eyes kept finding the ground. And that's why I cried. And that's why I still think about the horse. And because asking wasn't really about getting him to move. It required me to stop hiding where I was going. And I wonder how much of life is like that. How much time do I spend trying to figure out what everyone else is doing? What they want, what they mean, what they're thinking, where they're going. And meanwhile, a quieter question is asking, where am I facing? Not where should I be facing or where I wish I was facing. Where am I facing? And maybe that's the ask. The willingness to... The ready willingness and ability to let the direction be seen. Even when I don't know what happens next. And that's definitely harder than it sounds. Because if I look where I want to go, I have to admit that I want to go there. And that's really interesting because for I don't know how long, I thought the vulnerable part was not knowing what would happen. And now I'm not so sure. Because maybe the vulnerable part is admitting that there's a direction at all. Because once you admit it, once I admit it, it becomes undeniable. And there's no guarantee. And I'm wondering about all the energy I spent trying to figure things out. To know, to understand, to predict what might happen. And I wonder how much of that was really about ambiguity, uncertainty. You know what I'm saying. Or whether some of it was a way of staying one step removed from the direction itself. Because once I admit the direction, the conversation changes. With myself, not with something else with myself. Because I can still choose what to do. Because I can still choose what to do and change my mind and discover that I was wrong. But I can no longer pretend I don't know where my feet are pointed. Which is funny because for most of that day in that round 10, I wasn't looking where my feet were pointed. I was looking at the ground. And maybe that's why Karen kept bringing me back. Look where you want to go. Such a simple instruction. And somehow one of the hardest things I've ever been asked to do. Because honestly what was so difficult about it. Looking is easy. And yet I struggled to do it. As if there was something down there I needed to know. And maybe I did. And maybe that's what I've been doing all these years. Looking down for answers. When meanwhile the direction has been asking me to look up. And then again maybe I'm making all of this up. And maybe Socrates is just a horse and Karen was just trying to get me to stop staring at my boots. That's entirely possible. And yet what's interesting is that this keeps happening. Years later I find flowers in a junk drawer. Something. A question over the phone. Something. An awkward elevator ride. Something. I don't always know what it is but I feel it before I understand it. And maybe that's why it catches my attention. Or perhaps it's the other way around. Perhaps my attention catches on to it. I don't know. What I do know is that something happens. And my attention gathers around it. A horse. A bouquet of fake sunflowers. A person. A question. And then the story begins. And stories are interesting because sometimes they help us make sense of things. And sometimes they pull us away from them. I think about that question that Karen had asked me. Why would you settle for a lightbulb when there is the sun? And I love that question because it interrupted something. One moment my attention was completely wrapped around another being. And the next moment there was a desk, a breath, a room, my feet on the floor. Nothing had changed. He was still gone. And the question was unanswered. And my life was still my life. And my attention had moved. And I keep coming back to that. Attention lands. And then what? I think for a long time my answer was think about it. Turn it over and analyze it. And figure it out and explain it. Make sense of it. And I love Karen's questions so much because they never seem interested in what I was thinking about. They only seem interested in where my attention was. A horse won't move. My attention goes to the horse. A person leaves. My attention goes to the person. A feeling shows up. And my attention goes to the story about the feeling. And somehow, over and over again, she would ask a question that brought me somewhere else entirely. Not to an answer. To what was here. I don't know. Maybe that's what I've been circling this whole time. Attention. And the way it lands and gathers and wraps itself around something and begins spinning stories. And every now and then, a good question comes along. Look where you want to go. Why settle for a lightbulb when there is the sun? Who is the one left? Questions that don't answer anything. Questions that simply move my attention. Maybe I don't need the whole damn circle. Maybe all I need right now is the willingness to notice where my attention has landed. And the willingness to take a feel. A bouquet of fake sunflowers in a junk drawer. A horse. A question. My feet on the floor. And for now, that's enough. At least I think it is. Ask me again tomorrow. Because if there's one thing I'm learning, it's that life has a funny way of handing me another question. Or another bouquet of flowers. Just another opportunity to notice where my attention has gone. And I sense that's what makes me love that image of 16-year-old Sarah standing in that round pen with Socks and Karen. And not because she figured anything out, she didn't. The horse Socrates took two steps and stopped and she cried in the end. Objectively speaking, I suppose it's not a very impressive story. And yet, something about it has stayed with me longer than most of the things I was sure mattered. And it wasn't really about the horse and it wasn't really about getting somewhere. Because for a moment, standing there with these tears in my eyes and a lead rope in my hands, I caught a glimpse of something. Just this difference between staring at the ground and looking where I wanted to go. And for now, I make that okay. A little bit more awareness of where my attention has landed. More willingness to look where I want to go. I don't know what happens next or if the horse moves or the person stays or if the feeling means anything. I don't know. What I do know is that I keep getting these opportunities, these happenings. A feeling, something catching my attention, questions. Do I stare at the ground or do I look where I want to go? Do I pull or do I take a feel and ask? I don't know. I'm still learning. But right now, I leave it there. A horse, a bouquet of fake sunflowers in a junk drawer, my feet on the floor, and a question still hanging in the air. What happens when I let the direction be seen? Thanks for listening. My name is Sarah Forst, and this is Pressure and Release.