So I ran across a scrap of paper a few days ago that I had penned the following words upon about six or seven years ago while sitting in my truck watching the sun set in late November:
As time is slowly dragging by,
I know the days are getting
longer. Nights are getting
thicker and colder. But it's
not the weather causing these
changes. It's not the time
of year with the changing
of seasons. All this is in
my heart. Places in my
soul that were once kind
and soft are growing
older, being weathered as
an old stone gate. Friends
and strangers come and go.
As people pass through,
their hands pass
over my rough and
smooth edges. Slowly,
very slowly, small pieces
fall off. It's not time or
seasons that are causing
these changes, it's the
people that enter in and
stay for a while, but then
eventually they part from
me. Days grow longer as
the fear of friends leaving
comes more certain.
Writing is good. Journals, diaries, memoirs, or scraps of paper tossed here and stashed there that one day they may be found and remind us of where we've been and hopefully point us towards where we are going. I have had some very deep and dark nights of the soul and I expect to see more of them before my time here is done.
And just as the seasons change and give us a vast cycle of life here on earth, so the seasons of the soul change from Winter's Dark nights to Spring's Bright mornings.
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