Visual Poem No. 01: In the Choosing

https://video.wixstatic.com/video/4f7506_d64a5ad013284547af658e2211855c86/1080p/mp4/file.mp4

An inaugural vocal excerpt from the poem "In the Choosing" is combined with personal photos of life on the ranch.

Welcome back to The Grit Journal (Mama 👋🏻😆)!

If you're not my sweet Mama, and aren't related to me at all - double welcome, Green Broke!

I hope you found me on purpose, not by force, and that you didn't have to read anything that didn't make sense to you.

Via con Dios if you're here against your will.

But also, thank you!

Between my Monday–Friday day job in Human Resources (aka the job that actually pays the bills), my part-time volun-told job of managing ranch and trucking books for my better half, and mentally drafting twelve side hustles before lunch because have you seen the price of groceries lately? 

— I’d say my brain probably runs a lot like yours.

Twinsies!

Is this where we break out in song and dance together and clap, "If you're happy and you know it, it's your meds!"

My creative mind has been on overdrive recently!

I started this venture to simply express myself, rather than hide away a lifetime of totes filled with pages, journals, files, etc. - for only me to see.

Dead giveaway that I have a therapist!

At 44, it felt like the time to explode with expression. What could go wrong?

When I open a GoFundMe account next, you'll know. 😆

By day, I help translate complex human emotions into productive workplace conversations — and run a few numbers while I’m at it. Yes, I am quite the professional.

By night, I reconcile my own feelings.

While this Visual Poem has also been uploaded to Instagram, I wanted to add it to the Grit Journal (Blog) as well, and include the original poem that inspired it all - but that's also on the 'gram somewhere.

Hey, I don't know what I'm doing - I write poetry and dot my "i"s!

I write poetry about life as it is — ranch dust (Vale dust is REAL), cold mornings, moods that swing like Saloon doors, and whatever thought decides it deserves an internal microphone.

Writing and art in general have always been my release valve.

At least, as far back as I can remember.

Nothing beats a freshly sharpened Ticonderoga, am I right?

Some people run. Some people drink wine.

I rearrange words until they behave . . . while drinking Whiskey 😉

Yes, you'll find a lot of items in the shop that are directed towards women and whiskey and not men - and I think it's time we get our platform, don't you? ha!

I grew beyond the little girl who wrote and drew on everything imaginable - that Twin Mattress from the 90's was calling my name, and my Sharpies and I stand by that design! Sorry, Mama and Dad.

I have been known as “the wordsmith” since... middle school?

— the friend who helped with English homework, edited Master’s theses for fun (yes, fun), and once politely corrected my own professor in grad school for Human Services.

I regret nothing!

For the record, I was correct, and she had to revise my grade.

Mic drop.

Cowboy Poetry gatherings — near and far — fill my cup and light a little wildfire under me.

They remind me to keep writing, keep sharing, keep hoping.

They remind me that all stories carry meaning, value, and connection.

Not for likes.

Not for follows.

Not even for sales.

But for that quiet exhale that comes when something inside you finally has a name.

The release? Achieved.

The joy? Ongoing.

The fun? Very real.

I hope to be in your audience someday at a Poetry gathering and have the pleasure of sharing our passion for all things country living and gritty wit in rhyme or simply elegant, flowing words aloud.

At this year's National Cowboy Poetry Gathering in Elko, NV - the Grammys of Cowboy Poetry, I became immersed in shared poetry and the expression, bravery, and talents of it all.

And I said, "I want to share, too!"

But what does that look like for me?

I have NEVER wanted to share before.

What's got into me?

Age?

Menopause?

Is this where I just say "YES"?

All the above!

I started an Instagram account a couple of months ago, and with fear decaying my deepest marrow, I actually posted a few poems ... my real poems that I really wrote, that came from my thoughts.

Mine!

THEN, I had the audacity to share a few pics of me and my life.

Yes, myself, like - real me.

People would know my face and my name and be able to contact me.

Woah.

Who is this new girl?!

That alone was a Brahman Bull-sized feat, in and of itself - how raw and exposing to put yourself into the public world.

Scary - But I did it.

I am doing it.

And this site is an extension of that.

Open the gate, boys - this pony has more tricks up her sleeve after all!

I didn't tell anyone except for Nate (my better half and the brains of this outfit) because he is my date to the poetry gatherings and the listening ear to my many, many poetry drafts, as I pencil away in the passenger seat of his Peterbilt ... or my own car, or his pick-up - you get the drift - he drives, I pen . . . and sleep.

I was still too scared. Is that shame?

But what is there to be scared of when in reality, we have one life to live, and boy, does it fly!

I still think I am 25!

I mean, I don't feel 25 in this body, and my face doesn't look 25, and I have to fill medicine pill boxes with 20 different supplements and 'scripts each week, carefully deciding what goes into the AM section vs. the PM section, which definitely doesn't scream youth, BUT in my mind - I am young!

I digress.

When I doom-scroll (as one does), I find myself thinking,

What would I actually buy? What would make me laugh? What would feel like - me?

So I answered myself.

And that’s what you’ll find here.

Nate is the quick-witted cattle hauler who makes me laugh until I cry on a near-daily basis, and the muse behind some of the Tees in the Shop.

I genuinely believe the world needs more Nate — and I should probably hit “record” every time he opens his mouth.

Pure comedy gold from that, kid!

He hauls cattle.

I ride shotgun.

Think Passenger Princess energy, but ranchy.

I mean, after all, he did install a new side step onto his Peterbilt just for me 😍

We fancy now!

Last night after the weekly cow sale, he called to say he’d bought three more.

“Yay!" I yelled in sincere support!

The herd is slowly rebuilding!

Then he mentioned he’d picked up a load of 70 head that needed to go about an hour out — and asked if I wanted to come along.

It was already late - 8 PM (Inside joke - I'm your ride or die... until 8PM).

I was tired.

I was still sitting at my desk (WFH).

I had product ideas half-built on this site.

I was knee-deep in “why is this button not working” frustration.

And I still said "yes".

At 8 PM! I must be 25!

Because climbing into that green Peterbilt beside him?

That fills my cup and runs it over.

We talk.

We catch up.

We laugh at things that aren’t funny to anyone else.

Actually, we think we're hilarious!

And apparently, my mere presence improves his already glowing grin —

which feels like a superpower I intend to keep.

Temperatures dropped in Vale, Oregon.

And let me tell you.

IT. WAS. COLD.

Correction - I was cold.

I hopped out of the truck —

And standing there in the near-dark,

watching cattle unload under flickering yard lights, I realized:

This is the real version of chasing dreams.

Not the aesthetic one.

Not the curated one.

The freezing, spreadsheet-balancing, side-hustling, word-wrangling,

mountain-moving version.

This morning, with just a few hours of sleep and with just 2 hrs before my real job began, I jumped out of bed for the opportunity to run over to the feedlot to brand those three new heifers and replace ear tags with Nate.

He totes me along and pretends I am helpful, when in reality,

he just adores that I adore doing everything he does.

Aww. Barf, I know❣️

Some days I feel wildly capable.

Some days I feel under-qualified and over-caffeinated.

Most days, I’m both.

But I keep writing.

I keep building.

I keep showing up.

Because mountains don’t move all at once.

They move because stubborn women keep pushin'!

I write poetry from the viewpoint of an adult about real life — not the filtered version. The tired version.

The stressed version.

The sensitive, emotional, empathic version.

The mid-life, menopausal version 😩

The former country bumpkin girl who moved away and found home again, version.

I find comfort in the smell of livestock and the painted scapes of a herd at dusk,

and I welcome your shared similar stories, your feedback, and even your requests.

Just go easy on me - "I am not a smaaarrttt, Maaannn, Jennaaayyyy." - FG

I'm just a girl with gritty words on her tongue that are finding their place in this universe.

This website gig is challenging, just like life, and just like what it takes to achieve dreams.

But let me tell you - I am a dreamer!

More cows, please!

I plan to continue embracing these new challenges and new ranch skills

while still honoring myself and my loved ones along the way.

As the poem expresses, this feels like a long, steady trail home.

It feels like an exhale I didn't realize I was holding.

It feels steady.

It feels chosen.

And even when it costs us sleep, comfort, or ease, we follow through.

Not because it's convenient.

Not because it's easy.

But because it's right.

Living this life isn't a chore to us.

It's an honor.

In the early mornings.

In the long days.

In the choosing - again and again.

That kind of love and life doesn't shout.

It builds.

In that building, in that daily decision to stay and show up, we find our steady.

Thank you for reading today (Mama! 😅)

💌 Jill

In The Choosing.pdf

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