The More We Stay The Same
The tiny bird felt a magnetic pull to the solitary speck of white that floated in the middle of the black swamp.
She flew to it, lit and came face to face with a plump, green-eyed frog.
“What a beautiful flower,” exclaimed the bird.
“Lotus,” replied the frog, “the only one around.”
“Don’t you find that odd?” asked the bird.
”What?” answered the frog.
“That amidst all this rot and decay, one blossom expresses so much beauty?” The bird paused.
“I never thought about it like that,” the frog murmured. “Too fixated on the petals and the scents, I guess. That’s why I hang out here. I just like the way it makes me feel.”
“Don’t we all,” agreed the bird, “don’t we all.”
I find it troublesome that in the middle of challenges and obstacles, I seem so unable to focus on anything other than my junk.
I wallow in self-pity, flog myself or cast blame on all that has transpired—family, circumstances, false beliefs.
Despite my most noble intentions, I completely forget that only in angst can I unveil true humanity, only in understanding suffering can I develop compassion—that deep kind, the kind that opens locked hearts.
I pray for the light and the end of the tunnel with all my might.
I wrack my brain for the fastest way to escape the misery, choose to overlook the journey and run down the tracks as fast as I can.
Eventually, in the wake of whatever the storm du jour, I spot a rainbow and sense that wholeness again, relish the victory.
Except for one problem.
Rather than pay attention to the lessons and take the time to anchor insights and raw emotions, I, like the frog, rush to the pot of gold, become enamored with its allure and the elation of surviving a tough road.
I want to put the past behind me, ignore it, push it from my mind.
This morning, I cried giant tears of joy and sadness while reading a tribute to a dear friend who lost a five-year battle with cancer.
I remember the countless stories of those who visited him in the hospital, the way they spoke of him in reverence, the way he refused to discuss his disease.
“How is your family? What about your dreams? How can I help?” He asked everyone the same things.
In the midst of absolute agony, he thought exclusively about others and poured his frail yet brilliant body into helping them.
Though he left us early, he crowned his life with total victory, a hero who will inspire us forever.
I aspire to emulate him, despite my selfishness.
Maybe I can walk a little slower, stay vulnerable a little longer, sit with the pain before trying so quickly to rush away.
Somewhere inside, I know a lotus seedling rests.
Somehow, some way, I need, I must, I will help it emerge.
That’s A View From The Ridge…
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Ridgely began scribbling as soon as his fingers could curl around a pen. So began a love affair, interrupted periodically by schooling, business and any number of self-initiated distractions to mask the fear of pursuing his childhood dream-to be a writer.
The journey took him through Law School, a number of private companies, going public, a large merger and back to his desk, a computer with a keyboard and the daily challenge of following the dream.
Along the way, Ridgely founded and/or acted as publisher for Network Marketing Lifestyles magazine, Domain Street magazine and the Upline Journal along with dozens of books, audio and video materials. He writes several books per year, in addition to The Daily Column.
Ridgely holds an undergraduate degree from The University of Virginia, a law degree from Whittier College School of Law, is fluent in five languages and has spoken to audiences throughout Europe, Southeast Asia, Mexico and North America.