Thus Senor Sol, continues his journey forward, once again cajoling the light to paint a little longer, coloring a larger canvas. All the while, he eases his beloved, La Luna's task of casting shadows over Winter's arduously long and frigid nights. Winter, choosing to leave a reminder that he'll return in due time, giggles as he adds his own white brush to the canvas of life and graces the Earth cake with frosting.
A part of us dies from life's little torments while our soul awakens to the new gifts, left behind, as an apology, not doubt. Life seeks a balance and when she burns our ass with trials and tribulations, she tries to make up for it by giving us gifts of strength and wisdom. We can only accept those gifts, if we can slither out of our pity pool for a respite and slink our way up to get a larger view beyond just ourselves. As we do, we see that no chest can contain a heart filled with love, compassion, wisdom and laughter. That pump, beating to the rhythm of our souls, sings its own song of love to remind us to breath. To breath joy into what we do. We must listen. Then, we must act. For joy without action is no more than a pencil sketch of a cherry pie; no color and no flavor. Hope is the paint brush. Throw away the pencil and grab the fragrantly sopping brush and stroke to your heart's content.