For a time

There is some sense of comfort in the knowledge that seasons of this life do not last forever.

Sometimes they feel that way though.

And while I can only speculate as to why, it seems rather clear that we were never created to thrive in a flat environment,  one consisting of perpetual single-note melodies,  horizontal land, stagnant air hanging motionless around us as it goes no where in silence.

No, we were made to move, and one way or another we will.

The world isn’t flat, it’s round.  Cyclical.  Turning. I cannot help but ponder the significance of that.

As we journey forth, we find before us a world that is not static and safe, but wholly active and terribly dangerous.  Therein we discover immeasurable beauty, mysteriously overgrown paths of thistle that cut our feet and flowers that smile up at us as we pass by.

We are graced with love and kindness, scarred by grief and pain, and broken by our own brokenness and failure.   Mountains we must climb, rivers we must cross, oceans too wide to even see a minute fraction of.   We are blessed and we are bruised by our travel, kept alive by that which we seek, whether or not we know it.

We are drawn forward through the terrible, beautiful woods by a mysteriously known stranger, strengthening our spirit and beckoning us toward something we know is more extraordinary than what we can see.

In the darkest of nights when we can trod no further, our spirit is wearied and we feel the weight of the woods upon our back, we cease our journey.

“No more” we say, and lay ourselves down in the muck, no longer believing that seasons ever pass.  Isn’t it all this wretched darkness here?

It is then that He carries us, knowing his creatures far better than we know ourselves. The journey does not lessen in adventure and peril, but we are bolstered with a sort of calm during those turns, one that is not of this world.

And when we are rested enough, he sets us down upon our feet again….changed.  A bit stronger than we were, a bit wiser for what we learned while in his arms.

Sometimes we are set down in places of sunshine and peace for a season of rest and blessing, one that stays with us forever and charms our spirit for the rain.

And down the road as we enter yet another shadowy forest, we do not lose heart quite so quickly.  For the light that found us before binds and guides us, drawing us through the perilous places we must go with him to reach the other side.

Each season shall pass one day, and we shall be changed as we endure their storms.  Either we will become stronger, filled with more grace, wisdom and love by the scars mended while in his arms, or we will stay in the muck of the dark woods, unwilling to let him carry us.

Seasons do not last forever, but they leave behind their fingerprints. As surely as the sun must rise in the morning, so each must pass through. The beautiful ones bless us and the terrible ones change us, one way or another.

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Boys, snails and puppy dog tails

I’m about to share something with you which you may or may not want to hear, depending on whether or not you tend to be squeamish about the various elements dogs have a tendency to produce.  If you are, I suggest you read no further.

If you aren’t sure what I’m referring to, here, allow me to provide a visual aid.

You’re still here.  What are you doing?  You do understand that this is just a sample, don’t you?  That I may or may not venture into other areas of the dog which could potentially involve another end?

Seeing that I have not lost your company, I can only conclude you’re either a very sturdy soul or else have some strange fascination with the vaguely grotesque.

I’m sure some clever reader is now saying to themselves, ‘well then, dear writer, you must also possess some element of this strange appeal towards boyish charms, for you are taking the time to tell me about it, now aren’t you?’ 

Right you are, my clever friend, but not because it appeals to me. While I admit to being overly curious on most occasions, getting myself into trouble by my own inquisitiveness from time to time, that is not the cause of my forbearance in this case.   No, I’m afraid I must attribute my acceptance of such uncivilized matters as this on the fact that I was brought up alongside a good stock of sturdy boys and the company of dogs since I was a child.

To thrive (or perhaps survive) in such an environment, one must either learn great tolerance for the grotesque or else become a target of the wretched stuff and, consequently, those producing it (which are of course, boys and dogs.)

Seeing that I so enjoyed the company of both these creatures as a child, and could not bear to part with either, I learned tolerance.

Great tolerance.

But now I’ve gone off on a tangent and nearly forgotten what I was about to tell you.  Before I lose it entirely, I shall suffice it say, consider yourself forewarned my friend.

So to continue with my story: Every morning I open up the back porch to let Bear go out to do his thing, wait a moment, then allow him back inside.   Recently, however, I’ve come to realize that I have been missing a vital step in the process.   It is, you see, that when my dog pees, his front leg functions as the direct target.

All of it. Utterly drenched and dripping, you’d think he had dunked his leg in something.

That’s right, my dog not only knows how to pee on himself, he manages to do it every single morning. As you can imagine, between the size of his body and his strange fascination and obsession with water, this is not a little bit of anything.

It’s a lot.

The first time I caught him in the act I asked him if he was joking, to which he simply offered me a mischievous grin as only dogs can do, and continued with his business.  Either he doesn’t know his own strength or he just enjoys being male and dog in very odd way.

Needless to say, I’ve had to tweak the process of his re-entrance, adding a few minutes of quick, one-leg cleaning before he comes bounding back inside across the floor.  While I’m in the process of getting this done, he often stares down at me with a curious look that seems to say,

‘blimey lassy, what’s the big deal’

To which I promptly remind him that though he is my dog and I adore him so, I am neither boy nor dog.  And though I’ve learned to accept, ignore and adapt, I will always be a girl.  And girls simply lack appreciation of such things.

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