Chipped Spirit
January can be a dark month. One
particularly gloomy day, the rain was relentless. Rather than enjoy the warmth
of the wood stove, it was easier for me to sulk as I thought about all the work
I needed to do.
Later, as I washed the dinner dishes, I did something I hardly ever do. I chipped a plate. Sigh. It was exactly how I felt, chipped in spirit. I held the piece in my hand. While trying to glue it back in place the shard cut my finger. Why not feel worse?
The next day my personal clouds lifted. But the newly chipped plate bore its wound poorly—thanks to my pathetic glue job.
Later, as I washed the dinner dishes, I did something I hardly ever do. I chipped a plate. Sigh. It was exactly how I felt, chipped in spirit. I held the piece in my hand. While trying to glue it back in place the shard cut my finger. Why not feel worse?
The next day my personal clouds lifted. But the newly chipped plate bore its wound poorly—thanks to my pathetic glue job.
