This world. This place. This life.


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Some time ago it occurred to me that a person’s favorite season tells you something about that person’s deepest values.

My other half, who loves the colors and smells and rituals of autumn, is a person who values completion.  She’s much less impressed by what you can imagine, than by what you have done.  She sleeps better at night when she takes time to list the day’s accomplishments.  It’s almost impossible for her to leave a task half-done.

I, on the other hand, love spring.  I love all of its green potential–the smell of rain, the sprouting of new life, the hope of harvest rather than the harvest itself.  I am a dreamer.  Seven or eight big ideas come to life in my mind every day–and I want to give them all away, scatter them like seed, dance the Maypole of random possibility.

Dreams of how things could be are important to me.  They draw me forward, give my life meaning.

Some people would rather set fire to the fields, rather than plant seeds in the soil.  They believe the answer to the problem of pain, suffering and evil is to hasten the world’s end.

These destroyers don’t have a favorite season.  They don’t like seasons at all.  They don’t like this planet at all.  They want to live in a place where it’s always summer, but never too hot or too humid.  They want to live in a place where the bounty of autumn always fills the feasting table, but there are never leaves to rake.  They want a White Christmas without icy roads, and Easter egg hunts without muddy feet.

They call this place heaven.

Sounds to me like hell, and they’re welcome to enjoy it without me.


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