In the spring, the Meadow is covered in Camas and sweet new grass, and as the weeks pass others take their turn, Northern Bedstraw and Forget-me-not, to name a few. Then the horses move in to roll in the dust of a high desert summer. Scraggles remind me that the bulbs and seeds remain, a promise that they will return after the deep winter snows have buried the earth for it's rest.
The Meadow changes constantly. Change is the one thing we can count on, we choose the direction, but change we must. Change can be graceful, a learning, an emergence. Change, and the growth that results, can be welcomed or resented. Intuition can ease the path ahead or ego can run over it, running roughshod, and paving it unevenly and potentially causing harm to those that follow.
Our aging is a gift. We should be grateful for gifts.
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