• This Too Shall Pass

    I know I can be a tad dramatic at times, but I’m going to tell you the story about how I was nearly struck by lightening and left for dead in a vast Colorado meadow with nothing but an iPhone, a labradoodle and her poop bag a few weeks ago.  Yep, Coloradans are sticklers when it comes to canine waste management. Anyway, I know what you’re thinking. Why didn’t you just run for cover? There wasn’t any cover, so I ran for my life. Afterwards, I learned a valuable lesson...and it’s not what you think.

    Let me back up and set the stage for you. I had an hour to spare while my girl was in camp. Being Type A, I filled that precious hour of time with a walk in a nearby meadow with my trusty pooch. I set out on my trek with the aforementioned items. Sure, I saw some dark clouds looming and was slightly concerned given Colorado has one of the highest instances of lightening strike deaths in the United States. But desperately trying to finish my hike, I kept my eye on them and was nearly to my turn around spot when I heard a rumble of thunder.

    Turning around, I upped my pace. The meadow’s breezes picked up and the clouds began to roll in faster than I expected. I saw several sharp cracks of lightening and heard prominent booms of thunder pierce the meadow. By this time I was running (and I don’t run). Once the rain and pea-sized hail started pelting us both, my body no longer questioned the validity of my gait. My body was so filled with adrenaline, I was running faster than I had in decades. My mind was racing at the same speed, wondering if this was really how my life might end. I ran at a full sprint for 15 minutes until I was able to unlock my car, put Maggie in the back and sit in the driver’s seat, sopping wet, filthy dirty and thankful for safety. Two minutes later the storm had sailed East, leaving crystal blue skies in it’s wake.

    The atmosphere around me had undergone a dramatic transformation. The outstretched meadow, menacing and shrouded in grim darkness just moments before, was filled with glistening greens, neon yellows and muddy browns. I got out of my car to catch my breath (quite literally) and gaze at the beautiful aftermath, which seemed to glitter beneath the electric blue sky. What lesson was I supposed to learn from this? Yes, I need to ratchet up my cardiovascular conditioning, but that wasn’t the point.

    Does the blade of grass curse the hail that’s pelting it? On the contrary, it shimmers brightly, thankful for the blessing of water. The deluge is a stroke of luck, nourishing the blade of grass and the soil around it so that it may grow stronger. I felt like this event was a lesson in trusting the process, trusting myself really, especially as I face challenges.

    It may seem like there’s no end in sight when your head is down, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. Sometimes we fear the worst possible outcome, when the likelihood of that outcome happening is impossibly low. So what if we put more faith in the universe and ourselves, asking “How is this issue, ailment or situation supposed to guide me?” Instead of allowing challenges to incite unhappiness, fear, and pain in our lives, can we sit with them? Letting them pass by like clouds (or fast-moving hailstorms), knowing hard times can’t possibly last forever.  Better yet, once we learn to sit still and simply observe, can we learn from difficulties with the same enthusiasm typically reserved for learning something new?

    It might take a lifetime to master, but I’m up for it.

    Are you?

  • Comments on this post (5 comments)

    • Diana says...

      You are a great writer Liz! I loved reading your thoughts!

      August 24, 2017

    • Megan says...

      Apparently your blog does it like emojis! Those ??? Are meant to be kisses. Xoxoxo

      August 24, 2017

    • Megan says...

      You make me chuckle and cry, in like, five sentences. Reading this actually gave me a moment of peace. So thanks, friend. Love you so much. Oh—and I love my necklace???

      August 24, 2017

    • Tammy says...

      Beautiful message, Liz. A lesson I relearn almost daily it seems. Thank you for this!

      August 24, 2017

    • Jay Freeman says...

      Beautifully written!

      August 24, 2017

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