Sue Monk Kidd wrote in her novel The Mermaid Chair: “At forty-two, I had never done anything that took my own breath away, and I suppose now that was part of the problem—my chronic inability to astonish myself. I promise you, no one judges me more harshly than I do myself; I caused a brilliant wreckage. Some say I fell from grace; they’re being kind. I didn’t fall. I dove.”

Interesting word, grace. One definition is to do honor or credit to someone or something by one’s presence.

I began riding horses when I was 10 years old and rode regularly for decades, but hadn’t fulfilled my dream of actually owning one. At 42, I took a leap and bought a five-year-old appendix quarter horse so hot-blooded that I was regularly treated to my own private rodeo. But. He was the perfect horse for me at that time. With a mix of skill and foolhardiness, I had some of the best times—and rides—of my life. That beast taught me so much about myself (as most horses do!). In the hours spent schooling him, I was also spurring myself on. I was passionately present. I labored. I became strong. I moved. I found grace.

With horses, you must take the time they need, and consequently, the time you need.

Writing and riding have a lot in common. Both require your undivided attention. You become impatient with the routine. You learn to listen and to speak with your whole self. Some sessions are a complete waste of time. The pace varies from a solemn walk to an out-of-control gallop. You stumble. You face disappointment, then try again. The experience can be difficult and dangerous; yet sometimes your skills surprise you. Other times you spend hours, only to miss every cue. The mucking out never ends; neither does the methodical grooming. If you really apply yourself, you learn that establishing a habit can produce refined, simple elegance. You soar. You become strong.

Take the reins. Dive—you might astonish yourself.