ThirstyFountains

     Slowly, the fragile blade of grass presses up against the strong weight that ties it down. It seems to be making no progress in moving its oppressor. Courageously,  the blade of grass continues its struggle. After many attempts to remove the cause of its strife, the blade of grass cries out to the awe-inspiring sky above. It beseeches the sky to assist him and earns a riddle: Real eyes realize Real lies. Should one recognize many,  But ignore the others?      Contemplatively, the blade of grass pondered this for many days. At times, he would cogitate on this well into the night, trying to decipher the message. Then, just as the last droplet of dew evaporated from its shoulders, the blade of grass inhaled sharply. That was it. The answer to the riddle! Lies; they were all lies. The lies he told himself for years: You'll never be good enough. Your friends will leave you. No one will want you as their special so...

                                       One of the many moods of grief is a kind of numbness, a pain so deep and pervasive that nothing seems to be able to ripple its surface. This perhaps is a benign form of anesthesia, giving our senses time to rest a bit before we reenter the whirlpool of torn lives, of shattered dreams, of anguished tears.      As will all other moods of grief, it will pass. To know this is just a stoic acceptance of what it is. It is to be reminded that there are seasons of grieving -- and like the plunge into frost after a balmy day of spring, or like an Indian summer, these mini-seasons are not predictable. But they will pass, and they have their own inner logic. Sometimes the best we can do is say, "Okay, That's how it is today. What can I do that is most compatible with this mood?" Then, we go on about whatever business (or lack of) tha...