A Man Loses a Horse (or Maybe...)
Photo by Marek Piwnicki on Unsplash
Skies to the west darkened as clouds rolled in, bringing welcome relief to my sunburned skin.
Jessica, my right-hand woman, eyed the heavy soccer goals and took her position, nodding at me. I threw my actual shoulder into the metal goal, and we became human workhorses, matching steps and muscle. We wrestled the first goal into place, and I followed her eyes toward two large-framed soccer players running drills against the next goal we needed to move.
Jackpot.
They were twice our size and happy to "get some extra conditioning" by helping us transform a soccer field into the site for our annual summer “mind and body fitness party.”
I have none of Jessica's gift for taking hundreds of moving parts and turning them into a seamless experience. For six months, our team—led largely by her—had been preparing our annual Becoming Jackson Whole Festival, a free community celebration featuring yoga, qi gong, mindfulness, music, local vendors, and activities for all ages.
For the first time, we'd abandoned an indoor backup plan. Asking vendors to move after setting up outside felt impractical, and it seemed unlikely people would choose an indoor festival on a summer afternoon.
As vendors arrived, I took in the hive of activity. Tents sprang up. People hurried by carrying tables and banners, then doubled back for another load. The DJ tested the sound system. Volunteers, board members, sponsors, and our mindfulness trainers—most coming straight from demanding full-time jobs—hauled supplies, filled water stations, and helped transform an empty field into a welcoming gathering place.
Everything was coming together.
The mood was light.
The sky, however, was not. Clouds glowered from the west and the south, demanding attention.
There is an old Taoist story about a man who loses his horse.
"What terrible luck," his neighbors lament.
"Maybe," he replies.
Days later the horse returns, bringing several wild horses.
"What wonderful luck!" his neighbors exclaim at the news.
"Maybe."
His son tries to tame one of them, falls, and breaks his leg.
"What terrible luck."
"Maybe."
Soon the army arrives, conscripting every able-bodied young man. Because of his broken leg, the son is left behind.
"What wonderful luck."
The old man simply says,
"Maybe."
Just as I reached for the microphone to welcome the crowd, the rain began.
Reed, our emcee and a DJ with KHOL, was watching the radar closely.
"It might pass in twenty minutes," he said, "but we have to watch the lightning."
I stepped aside to gather my thoughts.
The festival was meant to be fun, but it also reflected a deeper purpose. We believe communities become healthier when more people intentionally strengthen the skills of attention, emotional balance, compassion, and resilience. I had planned to invite everyone to think beyond the benefits of an individual yoga class or meditation practice and imagine what becomes possible when those capacities spread across an entire community.
Instead, Reed looked at me and said, "We need to evacuate."
As a lacrosse coach, he understood lightning risks all too well.
"Please head to your cars or the recreation center," I announced.
Nearly an hour later, with another storm cell approaching, we made the call.
Festival canceled.
"What terrible luck," one attendee said, yoga mat still strapped to her back.
Maybe, I thought.
Around me, the hive reversed itself. Instead of setting up, everyone pitched in to break everything down before the next downpour. Vendors helped one another. Volunteers carried equipment that wasn't theirs. People laughed as they hauled tents through the rain.
"You worked so hard," someone told me. "How disappointing."
Maybe.
In truth, Jessica and dozens of volunteers had worked far harder than I had.
"I bet it clears," someone else said. "We can still pull it off."
Maybe.
Then something unexpected happened.
Instead of searching for another solution, I stopped trying to fix the situation and simply watched.
Not long ago, I would have insisted there had to be a workaround. I probably would have made an already difficult situation harder for everyone else. Recognizing that felt like its own quiet measure of growth.
But what struck me even more was what unfolded around us.
No one complained.
People instinctively looked for ways to help. They carried each other's gear, checked on vendors, comforted disappointed children whose candle-making had been interrupted, and gathered beneath the taco truck awning, laughing while the storm passed overhead.
In the very moment our event failed to happen, the values behind it were everywhere.
Our mission has always been bigger than hosting a festival. It is to help build a community where people meet uncertainty with steadiness, compassion, and resilience. Standing in the rain, I realized I wasn't looking at an aspiration.
I was looking at evidence.
Was canceling six months of work disappointing?
Maybe.
Did the day unfold as we planned?
Maybe.
Maybe better.
Because I no longer have to describe what Becoming Jackson Whole hopes to create.
For one rainy afternoon, I watched people live it.
Will the sun shine next year?
Maybe.
