‘Tis Its Season

Recently, I’ve been forced encouraged to consider the idea that everything has its own season.  This, of course, makes me think back to the famous Byrd’s song that we’re all thinking of right now: a time to be born, a time to die, a time to kill, a time to heal…

Okay, Byrds.  Pipe down.  As much as I get this concept, I don’t like it.  It flies in the face of my own ambition which, these days, is hard to muster.  When I’m ready, so should everyone else be.  Except they’re not.

And I might be wrong.

I very often write about frustration and if I don’t write about it, I feel it deeply and just decide to brood about it.  It’s a frustration borne from this very idea: a feeling like everywhere I go, everything I do is thwarting that which I’m seeking to happen.  Taunting hard work, laughing at earnest attempts to make good one something, whatever this fickle thing is that keeps popping up to rain on my parade is excelling at it’s job.  My knees are buckling with vain attempts at moving forward.

It’s in these moments that I do wonder just how far off base I must be.  Am I really staring at my dreams and not recognizing them?  Am I really throwing away gifts in disguise?  Maybe that is the distinct nature of risk-takers, the nature I don’t have, to see in between the lines and hear the whisperings of opportunity no matter how bizarre or fruitless…or hopeless they seem.

I know that when the stop signs start adding up against you you’re probably barking up the wrong tree.  I am not immune to realizing the whomever is here that’s greater than me works in his or her own way.  I’m doing my best to be respectful of that.

I have one humble request: could we expedite my enlightenment, please?  I can’t wander in the desert too much longer.


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