The wind's unusual gusto as of late, consistent only in its ability to second guess those objects and things that seem unmovable and static reminds me somehow of this passage from the book I am currently clawing, tearing, breathing through, The Winter Sun by Fanny Howe:
Be safe - you don't want to say these words to children. Instead, I remind them that Br'er Rabbit knew how to extract himself from the tar and brambles, so he could afford to get stuck to them.
Echoes of the possibilities of what life offers to me with smudged hand and dirty, grinning face every single day. Places of uncertainty, a call to action pushed from responsibility and tireless love for things-all-sizes-and-sorts, and a never-ending promise of instability that I can handle.
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