Time Changes All Things

Less than one month until my 38th birthday. So close to 40. Still “young” but yet so old.

The picture above was taken on my 31st birthday. I don’t remember it honestly. 31 is not a milestone. Neither is 38. But every year is an accomplishment of sorts I suppose.

I don’t know what the 31 year old me would think of the current me. He’d probably chastise me for some things and maybe be impressed with a few other things. He would have much more to tell me than I him. I would keep my mouth shut mostly. He doesn’t need that kind of anxiety looming over him.

It’s incredible how blurry the past is. I remember bits and pieces out of my memory, but so much is based on photographs. And I almost seem to remember feelings more than events. They are almost always negative. I’m honestly not sure I remember “happy”.

That’s not to say it’s all been miserable. But “happy” is elusive. At 31 I was dealing with money struggles, a depressed wife, four children, a messy house, and the potential of starting a new career. Stress was ever at my door. It wasn’t miserable, but it was one long day to day struggle just to make it to the next. It was life, just average.

From other photos around that time I can guess I liked a good beer, my pipe (obviously), and I was still headlong into painting. I had pleasures. But happiness isn’t pleasures per se, it’s a state of mind.

Now that I am nearing 38 my life is very much the same yet very much different. Unfortunately, “happy” is still hiding somewhere under a rock. Most days I’m just exhausted. I have learned not to stress too much about the nonsense, but every day is a battle with my nerves ending in a stalemate.

So much of that battle is in my head, warrior brain cells are conscripted out of nothing to go fight against imaginary monsters. Thinking thinking thinking… That will solve all the problems. Nope. You’re chasing a ghost, dear synapses.

Time has taught me to stop worrying out loud. It has taught me to find solutions, not just thoughts. Physical, tangible problems *can* be dealt with. It’s the spiritual, metaphysical, and emotional challenges that have turned my beard grey. It is the time spent wondering about the state of my soul, my happiness, my love, my fears, my self-worth, etc that has wrinkled my face and worn down my bones and tone of voice.

I’m quieter and a bit less nimble now than I was at 31. But I’d like to think I’m wiser too.

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What Does Poetry Mean to Me?

“What does poetry mean to you?”

That’s a tough question. @trucklife-family tagged me earlier in a post posing this quandary.

Honestly I haven’t given it much thought over all these years.

My poetry journey started as an assignment in seventh grade language arts class. It was my first year at a public school and hormones were invading my poor body. My first poems were probably about the girl I crushed on so hard in that language arts class but I can’t remember exactly which was my first poem.

I do remember that this is my first published poem:

“Their Hero”

“All the honor, all the glory,
What would they say
If they heard what really goes on?

Would they laugh or mock or cry,
At what their hero does?
Or would they pat him on the back and say,
“It’s okay.”

What he was doing was right,
But doing it was wrong,
When others are counting on him to be there.

He’s off somewhere else,
Doing his thing,
When others are in the cold,
Waiting on him.

But hey, let’s rationalize,
It was right,
But what it was, was wrong,
When there’s something more important
To be done,
His family is waiting.

But family is not important,
When there is work to be done,
Changing communities,
Changing lives.

His family waits in the dark
For him to come home,
And he does,
But not exactly.
When he’s there, he’s not,
When he’s gone,
No one sees,
Or cares.
No one knows him,
It’s been too long now,
But he goes about singing
His song oh how,
Changing lives,
Changing communities.

Why can’t he only change his own?”

I remember distinctly the night I wrote that. My relationship with my dad was a little better than my older siblings had, but it was still strained. He had missed picking me up from a scout meeting, and my Scout master took it out on me. Perhaps they were both jerks, but my dad made a better poem subject. He was heavily involved in local politics, and if I remember correctly he was at a meeting that Monday night.

My teacher enjoyed the poem and submitted it for publication in some obscure youth poetry compilation. I still have a copy somewhere.

After that, poetry became an outlet for all emotions, good and bad. At one point I even picked up a guitar and wrote full songs. Mostly to impress girls (unsuccessfully).

Once I got married and became a father life got too busy and poetry got pushed aside. Now that I think about it, everything got pushed aside. It wasn’t until I stayed home with the kids on the side of a New Mexico mountain that I started writing again.

Then life went to absolute hell. Poetry became an escape, a way to get through misery and subtly tell the world what was happening without saying exactly what was happening. One can’t call out an abusive narcissist directly after all…

Times have improved for me, which is bittersweet for my poetry writing. It’s nice to not be miserable, but my poetic mind seems to be fed by negative feelings, thoughts, and events. Hive and particularly the Blockchain Poets community has kept me going with the weekly prompts, I hope to keep participating as long as this place ia still around.

I love creating in many mediums, but poetry has a special place for me. It’s the one medium that I get to freely play with words and built a world as obvious or mysterious as I want. It also allows me to impact people and perhaps help them in their own difficulties. I don’t think I’m great at writing poetry, but even my mediocrity seems to touch others.

Thanks @trucklife-family for this question, which apparently came originally from @warpedpoetic, both of whom I greatly admire. One day I hope to be half as good as they are. 😊

Check them out and then answer the question yourself!

Thanks for reading!

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Photographic Catharsis

Catharsis. It’s such a rare beast. Of all the experiences I have ever experienced it seems to be the most endangered and the most short lived.

I’ve been pent up as of late. Old patterns of self-hatred have been rearing their ugly heads. Of course to distract my brain I drowned myself in beer and new projects.

The beer made the patterns more pronounced, the projects just created new negative emotions about all the projects yet to do. I want to do a million things and all that desire just eggs on the anxiety.

“You never see things through. Don’t start something new.”

“Where’s the profit in this? You’re spending money you’ll never make back.”

“There’s so many ways to get where you want to be. Why can’t you just find them?”

“Where do you even want to go?”

“This isn’t the life you wanted. You’re a failure.”

I bought cameras. I made cyanotypes. I made t shirts. I posted posts. I bought film (which I’m now terrified to use). I bought an adapter and a controller and two games for my old Nintendo 64. I ordered prints. I dug out old treasures from the closet.

Each and every time I hoped something would give me a little punch of endorphins that would push my negative thoughts and emotions out for good.

Nope.

But a few days ago I did find something that made me pause and *almost* crest that hill of tears.

As I’ve gotten deeper into photography I’ve started looking back through my old portfolio trying to find the gems. Unconsciously, I was also seeking some validation that perhaps I’m getting better. I don’t know about the latter (photography has its ups and downs) but I have found a lot of gems.

After listening to a podcast about street photography I remembered taking candid shots of a concert I attended just before the pandemic hit. At the time, the world was about to lose such experiences. I was about to lose my wife. She had already signed a rental agreement and at the time I was teetering on accepting her choice. The future was bleak for me, and for the rest of the world as well, though they didn’t know it.

I scrolled back through to that night, February 28th, 2020. The concert was at Jackrabbits in Jacksonville, FL. The acts performing were local: Hensley, Yellow Steve, Denver Hall, and Faze Wave. I went primarily for Hensley and Faze Wave as I had seen them before at Raindogs, but after this night I was a fan of all the acts.

Seeing that world in photographs smacked me so hard.

A world without social distancing. A world without masks. A world where people were just people, all colors, all ages, just enjoying a night out. This really was the last hurrah in a lot of ways.

And for me it was such a last gasp. I never even noticed the pandemic. My life completely fell apart and I didn’t have time to waste on the world outside. I wouldn’t even recognize the man who took these photos. He probably would despise me, and I envy him. He was as oblivious as the crowd was.

So many feelings broke loose looking at these. The very memories are tainted. But I saw the world through those past eyes. It’s a vision that eludes me right now.

I want to see that world again. To have those eyes again. But I can’t. I am a different person and the world has changed around me.

Is this catharsis? Have I purged the negative thoughts and emotions? I’m still working on it. Looking back seems to be one of the best ways to look forward. I see where I was. I see where the world was. Maybe some of that “innocence” is still there.

Even though I have been to many concerts and social events since, none of them quite have the feel of that particular time and place. Perhaps it’s my jaundiced emotions that make modern experiences less enjoyable. Perhaps the world truly *is* different. Either way, I’ll keep searching for that old world feel.

As for my emotional constipation, I don’t have to keep chasing newer and better things. However, there is nothing wrong with trying new and different things. They may not spark permanent joy, but they are worth doing, and doing as well as I can.

Perhaps in doing new things well, I’ll finally break the clog. If not, at least I’ll have fun right?

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One More Reason I Despise Facebook

Yesterday morning as I opened Facebook for the first time in a long time I was greeted with this:

It seems some bored FB employee (most likely an AI bot) scanned my posts from way back when and decided my meme (harvested no doubt *from* FB itself) was somehow an endorsement of Jeffrey Dahmer’s cannibalism.

I wasn’t too phased by this, because I don’t advertise or “go live”, whatever that means. But it did bug me enough to appeal it to FB.

Of course this went nowhere:

They then told me that I could appeal it with some mysterious entity known as the “Oversight Board”:

I can only imagine some shadowy cabal of old white dudes in billowing scarlet robes reading in monotone every single appeal before striking down a gavel and declaring a sentence. Nonetheless, this vision didn’t spook me too much.

After a few clicks I was able to reach the “Oversight Board” website and turn in an appeal titled simply: “This Is Clearly Meant To Be A Joke.”

My appeal reads as follows:

“I posted the meme in question because it clearly contains a joke. It was not meant to be an endorsement of Mr. Dahmer’s behavior. I’m not sure how it can be interpreted as endorsement of anything other than a humorous approach to macabre topics.

This is an old post, but if my memory serves correctly, it was a meme I found *on* Facebook. It was passed around extensively at the time and I am almost positive no one was harmed. I’m even more positive that no one saw this meme and decided to become a Jeffery Dahmer copycat. We would have heard about it on the news.

I believe that Facebook should allow this meme to stay because it is something the world needs a bit more of: humor. It may not fit everyone’s sense of humor but what’s a world without a variety of humor? If we ban everything that *someone* finds problematic we will have to ban all humor. Thus we will die in a dull, miserable, bland, beige world.

Please allow my appeal to pass, we need a more humorous world. *I* need a more humorous world. It brings me joy to help the world laugh, and if this is taken down I will be robbed of that joy.”


Hopefully this works. If not, oh well. At least I will have stuck something to the giant humorless man that is Facebook.

Why I’m Awake at 4 AM (and Divorced)

Why am I awake right now? It’s 4:07 AM and adrenaline will not let my body back to sleep. It was probably a cat that woke me. Or a phone notification. Something. But now the adrenaline surges and the nausea begins. My brain will not shut up. There will be no more sleep tonight.

Why am I awake? Why am I where I am in my life right now?

Because in December 2019 I was told “I don’t love you anymore. I’m not sure I ever did.”

In March of 2020 I was abandoned and told “I’m not hurting you, you’re just hurting.”

Then I found a half empty box of condoms in her apartment. I was foolish enough to think her friends had given it as a gag gift. When I asked if there was someone else I was told “No, but if there was, this would be so much easier.” It would take me a week to break down and ask her point blank in the crassest terms if she was sleeping with anyone. She said she was sorry, but seemed more concerned that I had violated her privacy than sorrowful about her betrayal.

I’m awake because I kick myself for my naivety. I fought to keep her. I tried multiple therapists and counselors. I believed her when after four months of her abandonment she started saying I was abusive. I had to be the bad guy. There was no way she could ever be wrong.

“Even if you changed, I still wouldn’t like you.”

I’m awake because I still think in “what ifs” and wonder what went wrong. I’m awake because I know the truth. But the world sees her façade and supports her. I got off social media almost entirely because it’s mostly garbage. She blocked me shortly after she moved out. But occasionally her account pops up in my face because one of the kids leaves it up on the browser. I know the truth, but so many people are supporting her.

I can only assume they don’t know.

I can only assume they believe her story.

I can only assume what they think of me.

I was accused of “abuse”. She couldn’t give specifics. She couldn’t name times, places, actions. I was simply left reeling and questioning my own intentions. She convinced me I was a monster. What crime was I guilty of? I still don’t truly know.

How many people believe her? How many people think I’m the one who cheated? I’m the one who lied? I’m the one who left her? How many people believe I’m a controlling monster of a man?

I didn’t just lose a 20 year relationship. I have lost pretty much everything. Sure, I got to keep the house (she didn’t want it anyway), but where are my friends? Where is my church family? Where is anyone? Why does she get to have a life on social media complete with likes and comments about how cute she looks with her new man while I lie awake at 4 AM wondering why God hasn’t just killed me?

Has anyone ever loved me? Is every person just a selfish narcissist with varying degrees of skill at hiding it? Am I? Is there something wrong with me for wanting justice here? For wanting people to know the real story? Am I a sociopath? I still don’t know my sins which warranted abandonment and betrayal. A sane person would know exactly what he did wrong. A sane person would believe a woman who accuses him of abuse, because women are never wrong. Men are monsters, we all know that.

She tried to break me. She told me as much. “When I first moved out, I wondered how many men I would have to sleep with to break your love for me. Five? That seemed like a lot…” She didn’t break my love. That’s the unfortunate thing about love. True love doesn’t break. I still love her, despite what she did and continues to do. I’m just very good at being numb. I’m very good at redirecting my love to others. She didn’t want my affection, someone will.

She did break me as a person. This is why I am up at 4 AM. Two years and a new life later, I’m still sick to my stomach.

What is the cure?

Another Year Older

Isn’t it odd that we make such a big deal about birthdays? New Year’s makes perfect sense, there is a psychological “reset” button when that number rolls over to the next in the sequence. But birthdays? Every day we tick closer to our demise. A birthday is a luminous beacon pointing out that our death is looming ever closer.

Not trying to be depressing, but if one thinks about it, what is the big deal? We age at the same rate, so every day is just like the other. What is so special about the one day the earth just so happens to line up with where it was at one’s birth? Perhaps I’m too cynical. Milestones are important, and surviving another 365 days on this hellish globe is definitely a milestone.

My birthday happens to fall very close to the new year, so for me it’s a reminder of the “reset” of a new year as well as a reminder of my own mortality. Because of this closeness in dates, I started making birthday and New Year’s resolutions at the same time. It’s a habit that I continue this year.

Right now, my life seems less “pressing”, there isn’t much I am unhappy with. There are definitely logistical things that need to be improved. My house needs a deep clean and purging, my diet needs attention, I should definitely drink less and exercise more.

But mentally?

I don’t have anxiety. I’m still not sure I ever did. Circumstances can stress me out. Long term stress can wear me out and exhaust me. But real clinical anxiety? Nope. Any claim to such would just be excuse making. There is no lurking disorder controlling my mind. There is no chemical imbalance impairing my self-control. If I eat myself alive with fear of tomorrow that is purely my own choice.

How many of us hide behind “mental illness” to protect ourselves from having to do the real work of growth and maturing? I know I did it for several years. I don’t mean to imply that real mental illness does not exist, or that our minds can’t be so overwhelmed with circumstances that we lose them. Life is rife with pain and difficulty, and disease, even of our minds, is part of that. But if we aren’t careful, we can mistake our own sinful responses to life for victimhood.

The stress of the last two years has taught me how to be content. I could have wallowed in my circumstances. I could have blamed my anxiety or my ex for my feelings and actions. I could have shifted the blame for my circumstances to any number of places. But that would make me just as bad as the people who hurt me. My response to my circumstance is my own, even if I am not fully at fault for them. Sitting around pointing a finger or holding onto bitterness is not going to make circumstances change. So I had to be content. I had to accept my life.

Contentment is an odd feeling for me, I was always so driven and worried. But I have learned to appreciate what I have and savor the little bonuses. Nothing is guaranteed in life, except for death, so why not be happy with what comes to me?

Not only that, but how much can I truly control? The most discontented action we can engage in is trying to change what we can’t. How many things do we miss completely when we focus on those things? We can change far more than what we believe we can, but we get so hyperfocused on ridiculous notions (like the idea we can change people) that we miss those things entirely.

So what circumstances can I change? Or at the very least, influence?

Materially and practically speaking, I can control many things. Finances, the state of my health, and the state of my home and yard come to mind.

This year I fully intend to build more wealth and invest more wisely. I want to build my business and sell more resin crafts and photo prints. I want to have a more successful blog on Hive (sorry WordPress, you don’t reward me with crypto). I want to get out of debt as much as possible.

Physically, I want to fit into all the pants I bought in 2020 which “shrank” in 2021. I’m feeling my 37 years, which I shouldn’t. I want my body to stop hurting so much until I am at least 45. So diet and exercise it is until my waistline becomes more civil and my energy comes back.

My house has always been a source of discontentment for me. I have spent countless hours trying to make it work only to find it a mess again. Living with children (and an ex who didn’t get out of bed much) means there are circumstances that I can’t fully control. There will always be a battle until they are out of the house. But how much of the struggle is my fault? What do I contribute to the disaster which is my home? I want to narrow down these things and fix them as well as I can. I want this year to be the year when I can finally sit down every night and breathe, no more constant movement and exhaustion chasing one mess after another.

Fixing physical issues can help me with many emotional issues, but not all of them. Some problems must be dealt with internally.

I want to build more patience and trust with people. I consider myself a patient person, but betrayals of several kinds have made me lose trust with people in general. The world’s response to betrayal is to get revenge, or to destroy the betrayer, or at the very least simmer with bitterness towards them. This mentality destroys one’s patience. You can’t overlook offenses if you are constantly vigilant for them.

Betrayal tends to make one paranoid and always expecting more betrayal, it’s almost as though bitterness spills out and washes over everyone the betrayed comes in contact with. I don’t want to seek fault where there is none, or over exaggerate small faults which should be overlooked. I shouldn’t blow up tiny “offenses” and let my pride destroy those who slight me. Not every wound from another is a betrayal. I want to learn the difference between the two and patiently bear the one and courageously confront the other.

I should not stand idly by while someone flaunts destructive behaviors. I am not the only one consumed in the flames of someone else’s selfishness. Selfish people destroy themselves. Selfish attitudes impair growth and joy in life. To stand by would be to hate that person and watch them die. So this year I resolve to confront selfishness in others close to me, no matter the consequences of their response to such confrontation.

Life is too short to let it pass without making the most of it. There are far too many people who live short pointless lives because they don’t fight for it. I intend to make the best of what’s left to me.

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Both Sides Now

There is something exceedingly frustrating knowing both sides of a story. Watching a conflict is already heartbreaking enough without knowing all the gory details, but when you see one side and then the other, and both are guilty, it just rips out your soul.

Mediation is vital, but most don’t seek it. One side or the other refuses reconciliation, convinced that “their truth” is “the truth”. Meanwhile I stand by shaking my head at the complete fabrications I’m hearing.

Worse is when one party drops off the face of the planet, while the other lives their “best life now”. Both are secretly suffering, but neither are honest.

I’m growing weary of people. People lie. People mislead. People manipulate. People don’t forgive. All regard themselves higher than the rest. But all are fallen and disgraced. No one is above reproach, no one is innocent.

If you ever find yourself listening to one side of a conflict, stop and consider the other party. They will have their own perspective on the situation, and likely the truth is something down the middle.

And never ever ever validate someone on “their truth”. Acknowledge that they have a perspective, but understand that they have a bias.

There is “truth”, then there is “the truth”.

All the Providences

Four months of silence? Really? Has my life been silent? Not at all!

Though all the facets maybe shining differently, God certainly never allows my life to be dull. There are dark corners and bright ones. What would life be without all the Providences, good and bad?

Sometimes we think God must not be listening. We think He is forgetful of our needs. Things don’t turn out the way we want and we get angry. We feel as though life should be a constant state of elation, that permanent happiness is the greatest commodity God can bestow.

But is God not sovereign even in His “no”? Sometimes it is in the “no” that we find God’s best blessings.

I’m learning one day at a time to accept the “no” and look for the blessings instead of lamenting the “losses”.

Finding Light in a Dumpster Fire Year

I bet you are ready for this cluster of a year to be over. It’s an understatement to say everyone’s year has been a dumpster fire, or more recognizable to me, a hell of a wildfire, and not the fun kind that can be successfully managed. For me, this year was the kind of fire that you just have to stand back and let go until the snows of winter douse it. But even after fire destroys a forest, new growth starts immediately. Despite every hellish thing I went through, I can honestly say that I have come close to meeting my resolutions for this year.

This year I was supposed to “Relearn to be me.” I had this idea to rediscover the person I was at 15, confident, warm, able to love. I hoped to embrace my own weirdness and build my self esteem. My intention was to accomplish those goals by sheer force of will.

That resolution was quickly forgotten about as life heaved one curveball after another at me. I was betrayed, cheated on, lied to, and all but told I wasn’t worth loving. I lost a job and bounced into a place of humility, earning barely enough to cover the bills. I won’t even bring up the dreaded virus that has filled the news with doom and gloom all year and kept me isolated from needed friends and family.

I was knocked very very low. For most of the year I was my own dumpster fire of old bad habits and coping mechanisms. I drank, I smoked, I wallowed.

It became quite clear that shear force of will was going to be replaced by a crucible. If I was going to accomplish my goals, it was going to be painful, destructive, and not without great loss. And definitely not on my timetable. It was going to be a hot, fast, fire, one that consumes everything in its path, large and small, and doesn’t stop until there’s no more fuel.

Almost everything in my life was burned this year. Three times I came close to ending it. Providentially, I am still here today. I say providentially because this year has taught me about the true Providence of God. My faith was pulled out from under me very early in the year. Foolishly, in years past I thought my life was awful, even more foolishly I thought my faith was strong. However, it turned out my idols were stronger, and when they were removed, I crumbled. My life truly became awful, and I discovered just how weak my faith was.

After three brushes with suicide, I have to declare that I owe my life to prayer and the support of the Psalms. If it weren’t for various verses running through my head, and several hymns lodging themselves in my ears and playing in my mind while I put my head through a belt (at which moment I thought “I probably shouldn’t meet God like this”) I wouldn’t be writing this today. God stayed my hands with His word and feeble human words about Him. (Though an overreactive gag reflex helped as well.)

Sometimes I am not even sure who I am anymore. The years and the turmoil they brought eroded my sense of self. This year all but broke my core. Foundations have been shaken this year, with many of the “truths” I had embraced since childhood being challenged and even removed from my memory. No tree is going to be unscorched, everything has been or will be questioned. I am certain there are absolutes (God is Sovereign for one), but often I learn those absolutes are not so easy to pin down, if they are to be comprehended at all.

So numerous are layers that have been immolated away that in many ways it seems my life is back to where it was at 15. It’s like a clean slate. In the midst of all the chaos I found love, friendship, contentment, faith, self-esteem, and little bits of joy here and there. I now have a foundation to rebuild confidence, find more love, and rediscover my old hobbies.

Big changes came this year, and bigger changes are coming in the next. The unexpected and unwanted changes almost destroyed me. In 2021, I’m determined to make those changes count for better. I won’t be destroyed by next year’s troubles.

I can say honestly that somewhere in all of the mess, I’m beginning to find old glimmers of the person I once was. Only in the past few months has anything good come out of the flames. If the last few months are any indication, things can only keep getting better. Right?

2021 is going to be “the year of rebuilding.”

This means a continued dismantling of my idols. And continued breaking down of my old destructive habits and coping mechanisms. No more wallowing. No more self-pity, no matter how much I deserve it. I will not be a victim, no matter how strong the temptation. I’ll take better care of my health and sanity, even if only for the sake of my children.

I’m going to lose people in 2021. I’m probably going to lose many things. But in losing, I hope to gain far more.

I hope to gain the ability to love again, better and deeper than ever. I hope to love everyone well, my kids, romantic interests, friends, and family. The loves look different in their actions but the underlying desire to put others before self will be there. I am not the person I was told I was, I am loving and worthy of being loved. My desire to love and be loved is not a defect, it is a strength.

I hope to find my sense of humor again. I found some old cassettes that I made with my friends at 15. I was a happy, wisecracking goofball. Somewhere I lost that. Having been through a hell of a year I can only go up. I want to feel that happiness and confidence once again. I have many talents and skills. I have potential. There is no reason not to find joy in myself or in my ability to put a smile on other’s faces.

I hope to succeed in my art. I’ve allowed a lot of my passions to slide this year, in favor of TV and sleep. Trials drive creative output for many artists, for me they have the opposite effect. The concepts may come, but the will and the strength to produce evaporate in the blaze and heat of struggles. I intend to focus on production this year and not let projects go unfinished. I won’t let my own harsh inner critic keep me from building my abilities.

I hope to cut ties with the old and destructive. People, habits, thought patterns, nothing is off limits for the chopping block. It’s only when these things are cut off that real growth can happen.

All in all, I want a reset. I want the old me in a new, better, wiser package. This year seemed a destructive wildfire, but it was just what I needed to put nutrients back into the soil of my life.

This Crazy Life

Sometimes I feel like this crawfish, wandering too far from the ditch into the dangers of asphalt and vehicle tires. But like this crawfish I put up my claws and face the world with feeble threats. I boldly face that which could easily destroy me, perhaps a little too boldly.

Life hurts. It’s full of dangers and very real attacks. Anything can plow into us and knock us down. Pretty much every one of us has suffered this year. Some of us have been completely knocked down, some are still standing, but barely.

Sometimes we are blessed enough to have a hand reach out, pick us up, and put us back in the safety of the water. We might pinch at it, we might struggle, but eventually we find ourselves at peace. We can breathe again and settle into safety.

Don’t resist those helps.

Life is too crazy and too dangerous to resist the help and care of others. Even if they don’t solve our problems, they can give us comfort through them. Never underestimate the power of companionship or simple kindness from the hands and mouth of another.