Deep peace of the quiet earth to you. 

Price of admission.

April 16, 2019

 

God, wishing we had done things differently will be the death of us, won't it? How many hours of our days, how many hours of sleep have we lost to rehashing our pasts, combing over them looking for the reason we are where we are, cursing ourselves for our choices, our lack of choice, our blindness, our age? 

 

I suppose the question is, how many more hours will we throw over that cliff? Of *course* I wish I'd done so many things differently. I have a litany of them, one I know so well I could probably recite it backwards. But I'm here because I made those choices, and that path has led me, apparently, to where I need to be. I hope. Well, no. I won't hope. I'll assume, because what other choice is there?

 

The thing is, where do we go from here? The gift of a troubled past is that we have--we hope--the gift of perspective, the gift of wisdom. Let's not leave that gift shoved away now. It's time to haul out that box, dust it off, and start putting it to good use. 

 

 

Please reload

This Quiet Earth