Longhorn sheep are experts at perilously hopping across loose shale and tiny outcroppings along the side of a mountain. I read somewhere that, while plummeting off a mountain is a top cause of death in their lambs, the adult longhorns rarely lose their footing. I suppose it's the years of learning just how to jump and what kind of stance is required for balancing on different types of surfaces that make them so carefree and unfazed by their way of life.
I'm directing my first feature right now, and while I've directed smaller projects in the past, I still feel a bit like the little longhorn sheep learning his footing. Once in awhile, and I try not to do this as much as possible, I look down and get a little dizzy. But mostly I am hopping from ledge to ledge, making my way up the mountain toward my goal.
It's been a crazy journey for me. I've faced my share of proverbial mountain lions in the past year and a half. It seems like the higher I've climbed, the more dangerous and determined the mountain lions have become. As long as I trust my instincts and patiently work on perfecting my jumps, things seem to go pretty well. The problem now is that I'm nearly to the top of this mountain, and the movie's behind schedule, and there's forty mountain lions waiting for me at the summit, and one of my hooves is sprained, and I'm really bad at mixing metaphors.
The higher I climb, the further I can fall.
But the older longhorns keep telling me how beautiful the view is at the top.