I’ve been sitting with a piece called Winter Ground—about stillness, seasons, and learning how to stand where I am.

by Wally Bornmann

I need a coach.

You know the kind I’m talking about. I need one of those coaches that tells me to figure out why and why not and get me to sweat in the process.

I need the kind of coach that I heard someone talk about who said she’d gone back to the gym and she was doing this class where she was beyond certain that she was giving everything, and the coach looked at her and told her she still had forty percent more to give.

She questioned the coach and he told her that her mind was telling her she was giving everything because her mind didn’t want her body to run out of energy and so it told her she was at her limit when she actually still had more to give.

Of course, the story ends up with her fighting on past that mental barrier to reach another level of ability. I understand that barrier gets thrown up to distance runners all the time.

Well, I need one of those coaches. The kind that believes I have more in the tank and isn’t afraid to demand it of me.

And I need the kind of coach that when they’re yelling and screaming at me will get me yelling and screaming back at them and then finally shout out, “I’ll show you; you SOB!” and then do what I’ve been fighting against all along.

I need the kind of coach that then will look at me with one of those half smiles on their face and say nothing but keep on smiling.

I also need a heavy bag hanging up in Casa de la TinCan that I can simply walk up to every now and again and just start punching on because I get so frustrated with myself.

I can hear what you’re saying already, “You just need to do it yourself, you’ve got it there inside you, you just need to pull it out of there,” while you order up your second liquefied cup of chocolate cake with double frosting on it that you call your morning coffee.

My argument—of course I have an argument—is that even the greatest of the great have coaches. Even the best of the best are smart enough to know that sometimes they need help of one sort or another or maybe even just a swift kick in the backside to get back out there and get back into the game.

The truth for me is that I get tired of the constant yelling I find myself having to do to get myself to do much of anything these days. I’m getting tired of the responsibility of being responsible for me if you understand what I’m saying.

In fact, it’s gotten to the point where I sometimes wonder if I’m even coachable any more—though I guess I wouldn’t be sitting here saying I need a coach if I’d decided that I can’t be coached.

Have you ever thought about needing a coach in your life?

I have, to the point where I know exactly what she’d look like—yes, all you macho men out there, my coach would be a woman.

In fact, she’d be a woman I’d be madly desirous of to the point where I’d dang near wish I could be her.

This is the point at which some of you will find yourselves mildly to seriously repulsed while others of you will find yourselves at the very least vaguely curious.

Well, the truth is that I know there’s a feminine side to me—have always known it—and more often than I’d like to admit I have a hunch it’s equally the better and stronger part of me.

Besides, let’s be honest, gals do have better clothing options available to them than us guys, right?

Well, if all the snickers and smartass remarks have subsided, I’ll tell you the reason why I feel this way. From my observations, women have always had a tougher path to walk than virtually any guy.

I still remember vividly the day I found out that Wanda could no longer be a part of the baseball team, and we all knew she was the best player we had.

Anyways, I figure I’d have a female coach because if she’s standing there screaming at me I figure she got to where she is by way of some dang hard work on her part, so she’ll understand real well what it takes to get the best out of me.

I’m thinking Jillian Michaels would be about perfect, though I understand Heidi Powell lives here in the Valley—or maybe Denise Austin.

No, I’m pretty sure Jillian would be the one I’d need.

So, it seems I’m still in need of a coach.

Time to watch some more of those motivational stories on YouTube and see if anything will stick.

Then there’s always the good old “Just Do It” hanging around out there, I suppose.

Hopefully the pebble is being dropped as I write.

From Morning Musings by Wally Bornmann — available on Amazon.

(From my book, Morning Musings, available on Amazon)

I got a compliment yesterday, and it’s stayed with me — which is impressive, because I’m the guy who usually hears a compliment and silently thinks the person who gave it doesn’t know what they’re talking about.

This time, though, it stuck.

A longtime and dear friend told me she was impressed with my writing about Katie. She said she’s always wanted to write a book but never figured out how to start. Then she added something that really landed — she admired that I’ve stuck with it.

That hit a spot inside me.

See, I’ve always thought of myself as a quitter — in fact, a rather grand quitter. I won’t list all the things I’ve started and abandoned along the way, but let’s just say the roadside of my life is littered with good intentions and half-finished projects.

One that still haunts me? The guitar. I got to a beginner’s level, called it “good enough,” and walked away. Sure, I still strum now and then, but mostly I play no better than I did years ago. Yeah, it bugs me — and I’m not sure why I don’t do something about it.

When my friend said what she said, I told her the truth — I’ve thought about quitting Katie countless times. I’ve sat staring at a blank monitor, waiting for words that don’t want to show up. I’ve said, “That’s it, I quit!” And I meant it.

Then, somehow, by the end of the next day, my backside hurts from sitting too long on a folding chair, writing until I finally reach the end of something.

And that feels good. Accomplished, even.

The thing is, all I’ve done is write what I was meant to write. The story still has missing pieces — parts I only think I know, and others I don’t know at all. I’m sure there will be more moments when I stare at that blank screen and think I’m done.

But I pray there will be more moments when I can say, “My butt hurts.”

Because that means I’m still at it.

I’ve read about visualization — great athletes and fine actors swear by it. I used to think it was all mumbo-jumbo. But when I started writing Katie, I began having a vision before I’d fall asleep.

It wasn’t something I made up — it just appeared.

In it, I’m sitting at a table in a bookstore, signing copies of Katie. Imagine that — me at a book signing. (Audience laughter encouraged.)

Yeah, I do imagine that occasionally. And you know what? I’m beginning to believe it could happen.

In the meantime, I’m taking my friend Andy’s suggestion: next time I’m housesitting and all I’ve got is a folding chair and a TV tray, I’ll bring a pillow.

Quitting is easy — I know that for a fact. But in this case, quitting isn’t an option.

After all, if I quit… how will I ever get to that book signing?