Writing. Write. Write. Wright? Wite? Rite?
Do you ever have those days, when you think on something long enough it begins to lose any sense?
The other evening as I was cleaning the house up a bit, I noticed a few items sitting next to Country Man’s station in the entry way, the place where he removes his pliers and other work items before coming in for the night.
They were all riverbank finds, discovered by him while trailing the sand on four-wheeler as he worked on water wells.
Evidence of snagged lines, echoes of frustrated fisherman flicker in the eyes of old lures.
Delicate sea shells that survived the ride onto the banks…
I am not exactly sure when the ordinary became extraordinary,
but it has…
Some days, the country life feels likes a severe detox center; I am stripped of all the things desperately relied upon to make one feel whole until the next bout of anxiety creeps in….
… and I have to endure the storm.
Some days, I must take time to walk the shoreline of my soul, picking up rubble and dusting it off, saving it as a reminder of what once was.
Many things in this life simply do not make sense.
But as a beloved quote goes, origin unknown:
it does not have to be well with your circumstances, to be well with your soul.