Threads with Which the Pattern is Woven
I read this sitting on the back porch as the sun set on another summer evening and leftover rainfall dripped off the eves, while doves and pigeons flew here and there around the alley, chased by small runt dogs. I read this while feeling that tap on the shoulder of soul that says my stomach is full, tonight I have a place to lay my head, and the clothes I wear for the most part are not worn out; as all my limbs work even to the point that I am to pace run a friend over the last 50 miles of the Leadville 100 next weekend; the same limbs that were soaked through by the sudden afternoon storm that poured down on me as I rode home in a shiver caught by rains.
Yes, for all the unknowns in my life right now, I still have much for which to be thankful. My city isn’t being bombed or exploded by IEDs. For the most part, I still live in a democracy. I have friends both near and far that I could call on in darkest hours if for nothing more than an ear to vent to. I have years of history with a few outstanding men and women that have made the Now tastier and fuller than the Then ever could have been. I desire adventure as much as always and sometimes fearfully sometimes excitedly and often times both, jump in when it arises. I’ve not lost my edge on the back nine of my thirties. I still get tears when I hear or see something extraordinary and I laugh more than not and often when I shouldn’t.
And even the “human creatures’ free wills” that have betrayed, disappointed, and dug deep leaving scars that sometimes still ache in that mild used-to-it pain, though not something I welcome, I can mostly say, “Thank You,” - for reminding me I am alive, that I am human, that you are, too, that we are not perfect, that you have been cut also and even if you meant it you didn’t mean it that way. Neither did I.
I don’t want to askew that pattern being woven because I spent not enough time crafting the threads of thankfulness and celebration. But I must confess I often forget these threads for my pre-occupation with all the ways I don’t understand the pattern, the design, and a lot more times I don’t understand the Designer. Still, it is not up to me to make it beautiful, it is mine to be grateful for its beauty.