Jumping Ruts

Sometimes I feel like my life is a kid's little red wagon racing with jet speed down a steep hill. There are lots of others in their little red wagons all around me ... in front of me ... behind me ... the hillside is nothing but a maze of ruts. The handle of the wagon isn't very good for navigation but it's all I've got. What's left of my hair is flying in the wind, my stomache is in knots, my muscles tense, and all I can do is jump ruts. No matter which little turn of the handle I make to try to get out of the rut I'm in, all I'm doing is jumping into another rut. The hillside isn't even. There are smooth spots with just a hint of a decline and in those places I take a deep breath, look around at the others in their ruts, and declare that I'm not going to do that again. And about the time that I get relaxed, my wagon tips off the edge of the smooth oasis and down I go once again flying toward .... I don't know.