As I spend 2015, fostering a savoring soul, I've decided to create a weekly essay series based on one of my Instagram pictures. May these sweet reflections remind your soul what's great.
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I work on a dirt lot. In a riddled job trailer with a broken heater. I enjoy my job, but I hate the dirt. Especially in summer time. As the California summer sun beats down on our lot, the last little bits of water are sucked from the ground. This evaporation turns the dirt turns into floating, sticky dust that won't come off without a shower.
Lately, I walk out on the dirt of the lot and stare at the way it doesn't float or stick or even try and dirty me. I kick at the gravel and throw a ball for Hazel but it lays lazily in front of me. It appears to be dry, to be hungry, to lack potential. I could smell the next winter storm floating over the air like a sweet love song for my soul. The wind blew gently, the clouds carefully lolling across the sky.
And then I saw it: a bloom.
Right there, in the center of the lifeless, dried-out dirt, there stood a flower. Pink-petaled and bright, the bloom stood proudly amidst all the dirt. And the wind blew and the flower danced with it's face turned gladly to the storm-brewing sky. It's single leaf seemed to reach out and raise itself, worshiping what was to come. It danced and the first few drops of rain fell. It swayed wildly as water fell upon the dirt lot.
I stood there, motionless, as the rain fell down in long, straight lines from those beautiful silver clouds miles above my head. And the water dampened my striped shirt and left polka dot patterns on my jeans. It didn't float like that dusty dust, but dropped like it was charged with a mission to touch my skin. I stood as the rain ran down my arms in little trickles, staring as water adhered to me gently.
As I made my way inside, I turned back to see that pink bloom dancing for the rain in wild, uninhibited ways.
My heart yearned to join her, but instead I bowed my head in a silent thanks. I realized my soul was sticky and floating just as that dust. Because when a dry season befalls you, you must remember the power of a rain dance.
Another gust of wind came causing the bloom to dip and sway. And as it stilled, it's face turned to me is seemed to say: it is not dry here.