I peek through a windowpane on this frosty February morning in anticipation of a velvety blanket covering the road to work. Yet last night’s weather broadcaster’s boastings of severe snow conditions fell far short of my expectations; in fact, not even a pencil thin layer of puffiness materialized.
“No snow day.” I pout.
My husband joins me in a chorus of complaints. “I had fantasies of staying home from work and doing nothing.”
My hopes had more to do with what I would do, like working on my next mixed media piece and starting to re-organize a manuscript. Yet none of this is going to happen, so I turn to my consoling friend, the pen.
This morning as I write, I recall how often my most lofty of ambitions end up like this disappointing snowstorm. I plot and plan and pander my purse to pursue a purpose I’m just sure is the reason I’m alive, the answer to this rustling of feathers deep inside. I try to grasp the dove of peace but the down flies in every direction, and I highly suspect I’m not alone.
You’d think we humans would grow accustomed to disappointment and open clenched fingers and let the trapped bird inside fly away freely. You’d think we’d eventually come to the conclusion that “peacefulness is just not meant for me.”
But we don’t, we can’t, for God has engraved our insides with the propensity to dream of higher purposes, to search out majestic meanings, to long for eternal treasures. And so we measure our pencil-thin accomplishments with the rigor of Olympic athletes.
We hang onto hope’s windowsill with fingernails worn jagged from our efforts. And the gravity of our humanness pulls us down until we leave gouges in the paint. The prospect of peace bats around in our brains but we can’t let go of what we want to do long enough to grasp for a wing, a wing that we’re not sure will keep us alive. READ THE ENTIRE POST…