The Good Omen

I’ve always considered seeing a cardinal to be a good omen. When I watch one blaze across the sky in holy flames I feel I’ve been chosen to view the sacred. They were also my mom’s favorite bird, which endears them to me forever. I remember her calling the females, Lucy Lipstick, because of their bright orange beaks, which still makes me giggle. Since her passing, 17 years ago, I always think of, Ma when I see a cardinal.

This week my aunt needed to head north due to a death in the family and asked me to dog/house sit while she was away. Death has a way of equalizing life, causing priorities to slip effortlessly into place. I quickly packed up and headed out to the car. Once there, Jack, a feral cat that we feed, stopped by for his daily meal. My husband, Mike unlocked the car for me and then headed back to the trailer for some cat food. I waited in the hot car, leaving the door open to allow some air flow.

In spite of the sad occasion, I was looking forward to my stay at aunties; after all, there would be space, something severely lacking in the trailer, plus I’d have a pool, privacy, and two of my favorite dog people to keep me company. I was lost in thought when a dreadful thud called me back to the car. It was one of those moments when my head and my eyes couldn’t agree on what they were seeing. There was a rusty fluttering of helplessness, and then a shiver. It was Lucy. Soaring through our driveway she had hit my car window. Jack appeared from the bush, keen-eyed and crouching. I turned away, unable to wrap my head around the situation. Injured Lucy was no match for Jack.

I carried the heavy of this scene around in my belly all day, trying to grasp its meaning…but it was useless. So I self-medicated with brie and cherries, as I moved into auntie’s house.

About 7:00 pm the phone rang. It was a man’s voice, sounding as far away as Mozambique, and very official.
“I’m looking for a, Leah Griffith. Is this she?”
I usually host a mini version of 20 questions before admitting who I am, but after the cardinal killing I was totally off my game.

“Yes. This is she.”

“My name is Sgt D. Hall with the San Francisco Bay police dept. Do you know Eric G.?”

“Yes. I just spoke to him Sunday. Has something happened? Is he alright?”

“I have some very bad news ma’am, Mr. G. was found dead in his apartment this afternoon. He was sitting at the kitchen table slumped over a bowl of soup. I suspect it was a heart attack. I’m still here with him now waiting for the medical examiner and it doesn’t appear that there was any struggle. I doubt he suffered.”

Eric?

Dead?

Soup?

Not our Eric…

the genteel giant, and dignified Baltimorean, with Clint Eastwood grit and a Mr. French accent.

the story teller whose hearty laugh was as irresistible as a chocolate bar.

the meticulous journalist who kept a daily account of his life from the age of 18 on, noting the little things with the same reverence as the monumental.

Eric… a sixty something bachelor who offered love, sought kindness, and whose high IQ, and awkward social skills, set him apart from most of humanity, often repelling the very thing he craved the most...female companionship.

Uncle Eric had been a member of our tribe since 94, when he spent three years living with our family, witnessing the reality TV insanity of our lives as we raised teenagers.

I remember he phoned me late one morning, and with his hoity-toity accent, he stated, “I’ve been incarcerated.” It was a silly seat-belt ticket that he had ignored. Being a big man he found seat-belts suffocating and he refused to wear one. Bailing him out was an honor…and hilarious.

Eric loved us all

just as we were.

People willing to do that are rare.

I feel like a bite has been taken out of my soul

because I know

I shall never find another, Eric.

I hung up the phone

fighting for air.

I ‘m still not sure how to wrap my heart around any of this.

I certainly can’t erase it.

Sometimes life whispers

sometimes it sings

And sometimes life simply breaks your heart.

Temple's Spire

Temple's Spire
Leah Griffith

I thought I’d live a bigger life
of sweeping landscapes speeding by,
and neon wonders twinkling bright
against a starless urban sky.

An up-close view of all that is
a searching of the sea and more,
each grain of sand,
each polished shell,
whose chambers whisper to the shore.

I thought I'd climb a castle’s tower,
and punctuate through guarded clouds,
favored with the highest views,
through secret doors concealed from crowds.

All this I’d hoped and much much more,
for words cannot justice give,
the longings of a woman’s heart,
where limits part and hope begins.

Three score and ten—little more,
the gods have counted out our days,
pursued by dragons spewing fire,
and warmed by love’s contented blaze.

The best of years now lag behind,
when muscles answered each demand,
and clear minds snapped with fresh ideas,
ready with a perfect hand.

But now the needle’s eye has closed,
the hand unsteady takes its time,
The castle on the hill afar,
stands flawless in my shrouded mind.

And what remains
is mine to own,
the gold, the dross, the love, the dire;
the journey inward has outrun,
the swiftest feet to temple’s spire.

I Left a Hot Pot of Coffee for This?

It's early, and eerie, and I’m getting goose flesh as my morning walk leads me into some really dense fog. I have to push myself across the threshold of hesitation, for who knows what lurks in this heavy haze? And to think, I left a hot pot of coffee for this.

Each day is a gamble, but most days, I’m bright blue with optimism—the sky is mine, as is the sun and the moon. But on foggy mornings, when my faithful witnesses have vanished, and the familiar markers of life have morphed into storybook giants, angry she-bears, and spiky plants with mean points waiting to poke out my eyes, how do I motivate myself to keep moving? Do I continue on only because walking backwards is impossible?

I’m amazed at the amount of faith I have in the moment—this flash of now that calls itself life and holds everything with such casual tension, often disarming me by droning on and on like a monotone math teacher, and then shifting my world with sudden brilliance like so many stars kaleidoscoping from heaven.

I move forward, trusting that the odds are indeed allies.

A Soft Surrender

I was taking my usual walk
when I noticed a fallen leaf on the grassy path ahead.
I couldn't help but feel a pinch of pity
wondering if this leaf knew that it was dying.

I paused
waiting for the rise and fall
a faint pulse
but the leaf remained motionless
staring into the dappled underbelly of a former life.

Could it see the flitting birds above
whose cares blended well with green?

And what of the greedy squirrels
dropping acorns as they ran
the soft thuds of a midwinter snack
was it jealous of them?

I remained still
pondering this gentle slip of gold
wishing it would somehow rage against the inevitable
maybe catch a swift breeze
ride it higher than blue.

While wondering about all these things
I respectfully snapped a photo.

Upon viewing the simple image...

I realized
that I knew this leaf very well.

Last Minute Tree

Art by: Leah Griffith

Last Minute Tree
By: Leah Griffith

I was about eleven when Alberta Hazard, took me along to help her buy a Christmas tree. It was the night before Christmas, pretty late to be buying a tree, but I was excited to go. This would be my first time breaking away from the nest and seeing how other people did Christmas—discovering that our family wasn’t the center of the holiday universe.

Although only eleven, I was Alberta and Rob’s babysitter, and a good one at that. I was old for my age, having no choice but to grow up quickly because of a complicated home life.

The Hazard’s had five kids back in the day when that was considered an average sized litter. They weren’t your conventional family. They had a fully stocked bar that took up their entire dining room and they kept a vicious Doberman named, Ranger, chained up in the kitchen. The children were well behaved, but who wouldn’t be with parents as stern as Alberta and Rob. They were whiskey serious—you could smell it each time they spoke.

Behind the bar Rob kept a leather strap hanging in full sight. The kids said it looked like a long black tongue waiting to give them a licking. It did. I felt bad for the Hazard kids. Their parents were mean, their dog was mean, and they spent most of their little lives on full alert—like deer sensing danger, tiptoeing around, trying not to piss off Rob, Alberta, or the dog.

When Alberta and Rob would leave for the evening, I’d spoil the kids, giving them “horsey” rides, sharing my snacks, and letting them choose which TV shows we watched. They loved the fun, and I felt like a mini god exercising my power of good over evil. That’s why I was excited to be able to have some say in what kind of Christmas tree they had. Their last year’s tree had been a boney disappointment.

Alberta wasn’t a big talker so we walked in silence, leaving me to watch the snow fall and wonder how something so delicate could make such hard crunching noises under my boots.

The guy selling trees was bundled up against wind, standing under a streetlight chewing on a cigar. Alberta spoke first, “Where do you keep the cheap trees?” Her words sounded crude, absent of holiday manners. Mr. Cigar was just as bad, not bothering to answer, but simply nodding his head, directing us to a dark corner where skinny pines roped in twine, were stacked on top of one another, looking more like a pile of hostages than Christmas trees.

I could imagine the flat line of disappointment in the kid’s eyes if we brought home one of those trees. Lord knows I was pretty familiar with that “let down” feeling myself, praying every night that my perverted stepfather would disappear from my life, only to find him at the breakfast table each morning fresh-faced and ready to rule the roost. I piped up, forcing out my words in big steamy breaths, “These trees are pathetic, Alberta. You guys need a pretty tree to go with that nice house of yours.”

There house was nice—on the outside, but on the inside it was as stark as a cell. Alberta wandered over to a “pretty” tree and lifted a branch, meeting it with her nose and sniffing as one sniffs a rose. I held my breath, afraid of breaking the spell. Dropping the bough, she hollered over her shoulder, “What’s this one cost?”

Alberta wasn’t a girly girl, she wore her hair pulled into a tight ponytail, carried a wallet like a dude, and had one eye that traveled, so you were never certain what she was looking at. She jingled the change in her jeans pocket, waiting for an answer.

“Oh that there’s a Blue Spruce, came all the way from Colorado. That one will cost you twelve bucks.”

“Twelve bucks for a tree on Christmas Eve? You’ll be burning them by morning. I’ll give you six.”

The man shuffled over to Alberta, and lit his already smoldering cigar, sucking and puffing, creating such a cloud that his head disappeared altogether.

“I’ll give it to you for eight, but that doesn’t include rope or me helping you tie it to your car.”

Alberta flipped open her wallet and lifted a perfect tenner out, handing it over to Mr. Cigar Face. He snagged the bill and quickly added it to an ample roll of green, handing her back two ones. “You might want to get your husband over here to help you…” But before he could finish his sentence, Alberta had already lifted the tree and was heading out, with me running behind.

It sure was a beauty, with thick fragrant branches, smelling like every kind of holiday happiness a kid could imagine. I took the light end while Alberta held onto the thickest part of the trunk. We made pretty good progress trudging through the snow along Main Street, passing store after store, their windows burning with holiday temptations, until Alberta’s good eye fixed itself on a neon sign, advertising that Archie’s Tavern was open for business on Christmas Eve.

The tree train stopped abruptly with an announcement from Alberta; “We’ll hoist the tree up here in this doorway, and go get a quick night cap. It will be our little secret.” And then she winked at me, sealing my fate as her co-conspirator.

The floor creaked as Alberta led the way through a section of small tables. Heads turned and nodded as she found us seats at the end of the bar. I felt as though I had entered a secret society where serious drinkers, perched like a sullen flock, drowned their troubles in booze. I had to fight the urge to spin on my barstool.

Alberta sipped her whiskey, half listening, as a guy sitting on her other side slur-whispered into her ear. I drank my Coke, glad to be on the end where no one could sit next to me.

A black haired lady in a red sequin dress was busy plunking nickels into the jukebox. Her rump shook to the music like a shimmery lure, drawing a skinny guy from the crowd who pulled her into a slow dance. I strained to focus my eyes, trying to see her face, imagining pretty, but instead finding the face of an old hag fit for handing out poison apples. My stomach twisted as my mind tried to adjust to what it was seeing, and I wondered if she knew what she looked like to everyone else, or if she even cared…if anyone cared. This was a different Christmas.

We made it back to Alberta’s by eight, leaving us plenty of time to decorate. Rob was passed out on the sofa, the kids were in bed, and the only creature stirring was Ranger, licking his bowl clean in the kitchen.

Wilson Pickett’s voice scratched over the hi-fi as we strung lights, and tossed tinsel. We worked like frenzied elves on deadline. Finally finished, Alberta plugged in the tree and shut off the lamp. I had to catch my breath because of the beauty of it—the icy shimmer of Christmas reflected off the tinsel—dancing over everything, including Rob’s sleeping face, transforming their harsh living room in sugar plum softness.

We rushed outside in our stocking feet to catch a glimpse of the tree through the window. It was Rockwellian perfect, fit for a holiday postcard. Alberta smiled at the warm vision she had created, and whispered, "Let's go wake up the kids."

I remember Alberta loading her arms with the three youngest, while I tugged at droopy limbs and whispered, “Come see”. We half-circled the tree, the children’s eyes wide, their voices hushed with wonder.

I could sense the spirit of Christmas standing there with us—the joy, the togetherness, and even though it was temporary, and things would surely go back to normal, Christmas was visiting the Hazard family, waking up little hearts to the message of divine love, and the magic of hope, and change.

The Hazard’s left their tree up until January 22nd that year. Alberta begrudgingly agreed to take it down because Rob said it was a fire hazard. The next two years they had beautiful trees decorated well before Christmas Eve, after that they moved away and I lost track of them.

I like to imagine that the Hazard children grew up and created memorable Christmases for their own families, and that my childlike input on that snowy, tree-buying Christmas Eve, was enough to make a difference for generations of Hazards to come.

It’s always the little things isn’t it?

ELR wishes all our friends a very Merry Christmas, a Happy Chanukah, and a most Happy New Year.

May the blessings we wish for be the blessings we give.

.

.

As a Christmas special, my novel, Cosette’s Tribe, will remain on sale for just 99¢ on Amazon or Barnes & Noble.

Little Bird Saves Woman!

Okay, 2012 sort of kicked my butt. Yes. It was a stern teacher springing pop quizzes on my unsuspecting soul, re-teaching me things I thought I had already learned, only to discover that I had acquired a sturdy mental assent on theory but the lessons hadn’t completely made it to my heart. Like a strategist leaning over a map, pushing little red pins into cardboard mountains, I hovered over my kingdom, protecting and projecting, paying no attention at all to the massive gift from the Trojans being rolled into my foyer.

I had paused at a place of mature complacency, mistaking it for experience, so when this particular quiz was placed in front of me again I had no fear of failing it. It was familiar, and although it contained some of the more difficult questions on life, I was somewhat eager to wear out a pencil or two with my clever answers.

What I hadn’t counted on were the trick questions, and the touchy language being used (with many words having more than one meaning) to convey the questions. Being a somewhat direct person I took the questions at face value, answering straightforwardly. I was overly confident, imagining my certificate of competency hanging smugly above my desk. But then I noticed that things weren’t adding up. I used the old formula when calculating the answers, but it wasn’t working. It had been years since I’d used this method; I figured I had forgotten a step or two. Should I subtract or carry over? Bah!

I was tempted to raise my hand in question, but the administrator had left the classroom, leaving a curvaceous hourglass to mark time, spilling away the sandy hours grain by grain in agonizing silence.

It wasn’t fair. The rules were arbitrary and ruthless, independent of earthly reason. One would have to be God to know the answers or at least a clairvoyant. I revisited the history of the quiz, when it was last given, my mental and emotional status at the time, and noticed that the last time this test was given I was fifteen and sorely disadvantaged. My adolescent perception was that I had lost all when I failed this exam. I carried this loss with me throughout my adult life. I lived in loss, ate in loss, and loved in loss.

Like an amputee, I learned how to do everything with a missing limb. The compensation became normal. I was an accomplished amputee. What more could be expected of me? I was proud of myself. I did well.

But here I was again, trying to pass the same damn test, figuring that with all these years of experience I would pass the exam without having to raise a brow or scratch out a notion. But I was wrong. Once again I’d become ensnared and was facing years, possibly the rest of my life, as a double amputee, for no doubt, I would lose another limb or perhaps even my heart this time.

I was determined to save myself from such a fate and find enough of the answers to earn a passing grade. A “C” or even a “D” would suffice. This went on for many months and then one day, while fretting over the exam, I became distracted by a bird resting on a branch outside my window. The bird was grey with black markings on his head and wings. He flitted along a thin branch, perching at last on a woody finger pointing heavenward and singing as he preened himself into a chubby puff. With the sun cast behind him he darkened into an animated silhouette, a singing shadow, causing me to forget his feathery details, enchanted instead by his sulky transformation and the simple melody of his chirps.

Laying my pencil aside, I left the room and found a soft place in the yard where I could be closer to this happy bird. Closing my eyes, I welcomed his song into my being; evicting the testy tenant with the tricky questions from my mind, along with his convincing rhetoric that I was not enough…I needed something more to complete me.

It was in that moment that I felt an inner peace lifting my soul above my thoughts…a restorative reward for pausing. Basking in this satisfying surge of life I vowed to monitor my thoughts more closely, and not be so quick to believe their dark tales. I could feel the rhythm, the oneness of all creation flowing through me, helping me to grasp the reality that indeed all things serve my path, (whether dark or light) including this current test, for which I shall no doubt receive an endless “A” for, acquiesce.

It may take the rest of my life for me to master this seemingly simple lesson. For the lesson isn’t without but within. The situations may change from year to year but the message remains the same: Be Present. Receive Love. Give Love.

Who’d a thought that a little bird could save me?

I’m sending this amazing love out to all of my dear friends today. May you find courage when faced with life’s many trials and may the truth of your lessons carry you to freedom throughout 2013 and beyond.

Hungry Little Gods

What we believe—we become. How powerful we humans are; made in the image of God—little creators of calm and chaos, unaware of our inheritance, believing that we have God’s eyes instead of His ways. For a small god is still a god, and all gods hold the key. Hold tight to yours lest you forget your heritage, and wander aimlessly—forever afraid of being yourself—of walking alone.

You are connected to the invisible, that wide-open place of white-hot potential, where love whispers answers to your soul—if you will but hear them—great and transforming truths about your origin and destiny.

You are vast; yet you remain small, believing the gravitational pull of death and want, stale bread and dirty water—a prisoner of the grand illusion.

You tolerate your hunger, when you carry within yourself an invitation to a royal feast, prompting you to come and eat—gain strength, equipping you for the journey ahead.

I wonder at all things. All things! And sometimes I see a power within myself that takes my breath away. Circumstances teach me, challenge and wound me, yet there it is—a greatness that remains. It speaks from the smallest of places, drawing my attention from the shadows and ghosts—inspiring me to stand up in the middle of my frailties and believe the impossible.

How great thou art my friend the worm. How great thou art.

Sometimes, I experience stunning conviction, believing that my heart’s desires are my natural course—that my destination is programmed into my soul like a migratory bird—and that the important things hold a strength of their own; they can never fail me because they are laced, like shimmering threads of truth, throughout my being.

The things that I believe, I become—it seems like so much power for such a simple soul. But when I look to nature and see her generous metaphors all around me, I am thoroughly persuaded that the seeds of greatness are sown in ordinary soil.

Omniscient Soul Mate

Closing your eyes for what seems like a moment, you awaken to find that you’ve been transported… carried across a timeless threshold and placed in the arms of an embracing light. This white-hot love, pulsing with the intensity of a thousand suns, slices through the tender folds of your failing heart, releasing your captive soul from its fleshy cage. You surrender, smitten, oblivious to the waning world as it loosens its boney grip from your life.

“Where am I?” You ask, timidly engaging this omniscient soul mate.
Whispered answers nourish your hungry spirit.

It’s incomprehensible, this euphoric passage, yet you assimilate effortlessly, being drawn in deeper, immersed in a drenching love that awakens you to your true essence.

Your focused eyes sparkle with clarity, finally open to the breathless truth. You remember this place, and weep with joy at having found your way home.

Spirit and soul join hands, creating a perfect circle of love.

It is a new day.



Dedicated to my father-in-law, Griff, who made his journey home today, February 23, 2012.

We miss you all ready Dad.

Facing our Fears

Lately a lot of good people that I know have been getting pinned to the mat of life by some heavy trials. I’m stunned by the number of friends who are struggling in so many areas of their lives. Usually life will hit you in the wallet, or the heart, or your health. But it seems that these friends are being hit hard in multiple areas of their lives causing some to become really discouraged.

We all know that life has a cyclic rhythm, and that one day we may be sitting high on a mountain top while the next day we may find ourselves at the bottom of a very dark hole tossing ashes on our heads and cursing the day that we were born. When we’re in a dark hole we forget how amazing the mountain top was and visa versa.

I just came out of a very intense trial, where I found it hard to remember my truth. Everything seemed drained of color; being tainted with fear and hopelessness. When I was in it I couldn’t imagine being out of it. It’s like lying on the beach in July and trying to imagine a snow storm.

One of the things that I learned from this recent wrestling match with life was that the truth is always there for me to grab on to…as long as I don’t have my hands full of other stuff. This other stuff is usually fear. Fear is centered on loss and is our most formidable foe because it has the power to trigger so many emotional responses; responses like rage, jealousy, greed, pride, and even murder and suicide.

We’ve all read the headlines where some famous person, who seemed to have it all, embezzles money, screws up a great marriage, or dies in a roach infested hotel of a drug overdose, leaving us all left to wonder why. How could somebody, who seemingly had so much, come so undone? Somewhere in this person’s life they began listening to the lies of fear, telling them that who they were just wasn’t enough.

Fear likes to paralyze us so that we cease from being fruitful. It undermines our confidence and makes us doubt our gifts. You see our gifts are our weapons of love. We need them to fulfill our purpose on this earth. They enrich our lives with meaning and inspire the lives of others, lifting us high above this weary world so that we can see eternity.

I had one friend say that she felt like a fraud in her job because she felt so out of control in her own life. She said, “I’m supposed to have it all together. How can I possibly help others?” Oh really? Who has it all together? Nobody. If we had to wait to do anything until we had it all together we’d all be sitting around self-obsessing over our screwed up lives and nothing would ever get done.

I guess what I’m trying to say is this: If life has sent a renegade sumo wrestler, in need of a breath mint, and a diaper change, to kick your weary ass…don’t you dare run! It’s times like these that are known to precede the greatest victories of all. Open your hands and let go of your fears, surrender your expectations for certain outcomes and trust that the absolute best result is coming your way.

Try living one moment at a time and trust that wisdom will speak to you when important decisions need to be made. Anything more than this is delusional: a mere attempt at controlling the universe, which by the way already has a director.

You’re being here is no accident. There is a loving plan and purpose. Trust in this and your life will improve. Oh, and then pour some wine, blast some good music, and dance till you drop! What? That always helps me;)

Bruised Bamboo, a little help.

The suffering and despair of Japan’s people is incomprehensible to me. I watch as their desperate images appear on my TV screen, slotted between ads for Pop-Tarts and toothpaste, like a tragic prime time series. The imagines are too much too take in. I want to look away. Thousands of people’s lives have been broken to bits, their pieces cast to the wind. I shift on my sofa, seeking a more comfortable position. But there is no comfort, because my brothers and sisters are suffering. I continue to watch…. and sink into a hole of despair, where hope seems impossible. and loss the victor.

I begin to fear for myself and my family. Living at sea level in Florida, where an earthquake in another remote part of the world could trigger a tsunami and it could be us on TV, or the West Coast, or any other part of the world. I want to run and hide....go somewhere safe from calamity. But there is no safe place.....and Japan is devastated.

I force myself to feel the snake of despair that has curled up inside of me: depression, fear, grief, helplessness. I see an old Japanese woman shivering under a dirty blanket. Her face is twisted with sorrow as she stands alone….and I want to comfort her. I want to hold her and weep with her for her losses……take her home with me. But I’m here, and she is oh so far away.

I learned a long time ago that hopelessness is contagious. Letting despair and fear overtake me, disarms me, making me part of the problem rather than a key to the solution. So, as I sat on my sofa, choking back tears, I whispered a prayer for the people of Japan. It wasn’t an eloquent prayer, and I’m not even sure that my words made any sense. But it was a cry from the heart; a plea for help, and restitution, and I believe it helped.

The only other thing I know to do (other than sending them money; which is the first thing to do,) is to be willing to carry their terrified faces with me as I go through my refreshingly ordinary day, and let myself feel the bite of their sufferings. That is the only help I have left to offer. Sorrow inspires empathy and empathy inspires action. We are God’s hands reaching out to our brothers and sisters in Japan. They are a part of us..... no…..they are us.

Between My Ears

I often wake up to prickly negative thoughts that speak with exaggerated authority, pushing their way into my mind…into my day. I respond with an internal flinch, and a sigh of distress, as I slip out of my bed, already dreading the day. I surrender my day without much resistance, believing the lies that nip at my heart, “you’re a fat fool ...and a failure” they say, stealing pieces of me until there is little left for living….or loving. Who would have thought I could surrender so easily, waving the white flag at the first sign of an attack without a fight or even a proper argument. But this is how the thief of souls comes; stealing in the morning when the sun is still dim and the dew of my dreams still fresh on my heart. Stealing before inspiration’s tender green roots find sure ground, robbing me of the tidbits of my truth before they have a chance to feed my spirit.
Life doesn’t have to be this way and I know it. I know it because I have tasted the sweet waters of inspiration, and seen how they nourish; bringing precious gifts of light and hope with them. Instructing me on how to fight back, and reminding me of who I am…who we all are. That we are special and here for a purpose, but as long as we stay distracted by negativity we will never truly fulfill that which we came here for; the unique purpose that sets us apart as individuals and makes us special.
Some days start with truth and light, and for those days I am grateful. But on the dark days, and there are plenty of them, I need to remember to fight back. To center myself with my God and listen to the Spirit speak to me about my life and who I am. When I do this I find life is a joy and not an endless chore. So, why do I allow myself to fall so far before looking up? Perhaps it’s a habit of my fallen nature. I find habits of the flesh seem to come naturally but habits of the Spirit must be fought for and won.