There are moments and days when I think surely all this must be a dream and has not happened. Surely I will wake up in the cabin in the woods the dream having taught me a lesson in gratefulness for all the blessings I knew before I went to sleep. But if it be a dream, I have not awakened. And if it be not a dream, my little heart sighs. Amidst the destruction and loss, and yes the whispers and images of nature, words that are woven into all mythology, poetry, art, faith and wisdom teachings keep coming back. The only friend in the solitude, to sit, comfort, and paint a picture of then, now, and perhaps to be.
"You can choose between loveless and miraculous channels of expression. You can make an empty shell, but you cannot express nothing at all. You can wait, delay, paralyze yourself, or reduce your creativity almost to nothing. But you cannot abolish it. You can destroy your medium of communication, but not your potential. You did not create yourself" [Course in Miracles]
Am I the charred and scorched guardian of the tiny new life or perhaps the tiny new life itself? Maybe the new life is part of the scorched and the two are one. I do not know. Sweet Hands of Life, help me stand my post, faithful to Your intent.