Get this guy some baggy shorts and a metal detector.

Why can't Dick Cheney disappear like a good Veep, and just play golf?

Instead of going on political talk shows to condemn Mr. Obama, and trying to whip up fear and loathing by speaking poison at right-wing venues, why can't the former Vice President use his intelligence and influence to do something positive for the country and the world? He could be working to eliminate world hunger, building houses for the poor, or establishing a foundation that helps third world countries develop green practices and economies.

Failing that, he could just sit down and shut up.

Instead he continues to engage in a battle that no one else is fighting, defending the insanity of the last administration, with Cassandra-like warnings about the terrorist attacks to come. There is little doubt in my mind that there will be terrorist attacks in the future, but they will have far more to do with what Bush/Cheney did than anything else. Undermining the current administration is a self-serving, cynical ploy, right out of the far right's playbook.

If a country's general character and state of mind can be seen in the general character and state of mind of its leaders, the Bush era created a United States that was increasingly paranoid, defensive, suspicious, angry, fearful, petulant, domineering, and, ultimately, weak. And no matter how things went, the future always looked scary and dark. To them, it still does.

If we extend that thought to Obama, the United States is now engaged, open to new ideas, measured, thoughtful, hopeful, articulate (haven't heard anyone say "nu-cu-lar" since Sarah Palin left the stage), and working towards a future that looks brighter—and possible.

Are they doing everything right? Of course not. No one could. But I'd rather be wrong with Obama's approach and policies than "right" with Darth Vader and his loyal sidekick, W. The "force" Star Wars referred to was not the kind of force Dick Cheney has always championed. And he and his ilk (and they are ilk) will never, ever understand that.

Fear

I realized today that fear is just worrying about something that hasn't happened yet--something that may never happen. 

The more you believe that something bad will happen ("I will slip and fall" "My horse will spook and I'll get hurt" "This will be too difficult and I will fail"), the more likely it is that that will indeed happen. You use up valuable energy by worrying about the thing that hasn't happened yet, instead of being in the moment and using that energy to support yourself as you negotiate the situation.

You can handle whatever comes. You may not handle it gracefully, nor perhaps as well as you might like, but you can walk across the ice without falling, and ride through whatever your horse may or may not do. 

You're just that good. 

I am not a wuss.

Private guilt. Why the hell do we do it to ourselves? Feeling guilty about something that no one else notices or cares about, something that doesn't really matter, something that isn't even wrong. But the judges in our heads are fixated on it, and let us know, all day long.

Here's what I'm talking about:
When I don't take my horse out on a beautiful chilly day--partly because it's a bit chilly and partly because there's no one to ride with--I feel guilty.

It's not the cold that keeps me from riding, it's riding alone. My horse is very cautious when we're by ourselves; he's always surveying the area around us to be sure there are no predators lying in wait. Sometimes he shies at inanimate objects, sometimes he bolts a few steps when he thinks something is sneaking up behind us. Once in a while, he suddenly turns on the afterburners--and you wouldn't believe the thrust those rear engines have. Depending on where we are, it's either just annoying or downright dangerous, say, if we're on the sidewalk next to a busy road, on our way to the barn next door.

Even though I haven't fallen off (yet) and have ridden fairly well through everything he's done thus far, some days I just don't have the emotional fortitude to face it. So I find excuses to avoid riding. And then the judge in my head says, "You wuss. If you really knew how to ride, you'd just tough it out. Everyone knows you're a wuss. Wussy, wussy, wussy. "

Now here's the thing. No one cares whether I ride or not. Certainly Wolfie doesn't--he'd rather hang out in the paddock with his buddy than ride around in circles or go out on the trails. As for other riders, I'm sure the people I ride with wish I'd stop talking about this issue, but whether I ride or not is completely irrelevant to them. It just doesn't matter one way or the other.

But I care. I see it as some kind of foundational character weakness. Yet, if I look at the bigger picture, the fact that I ride at all is a pretty good testament to my courage. Horses are big and powerful. Their reactions to the unexpected can be extremely dangerous. People die riding horses. Think Christopher Reeve.

So, am I really a wuss? I suppose it depends on one's perspective. But I know I'm a fool if I listen to the voice in my head that says so. And I'd rather be a wuss than a fool.