Where do you go in your dreams? Are you at home or in some distant world that is alien to your waking self? Are you ever at a crossroads? I’ve read that dreaming about a bridge is symbolic of transition. Dreams about a crossroads is symbolic of making a decision. Do we take the iron ribbon that pulls us straight forward or travel up the mountain and find our way to the bridge? What if there’s a third choice? A pathway that’s not obvious. If you look closely at the road into the mountains there’s a sign that indicates it’s the wrong way. But the railway is built for travel by train and since I’m in the Big Blue Truck that route is also an invalid choice. But, just out of frame is another bridge.
The real world likes to present us with false choices. We can see where we want to be but there seems to be no way to get there. It’s in these time that we need to step back and change our perspective. It’s very likely that the third option is just outside of our field of vision.
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Tonight’s Feature Image is titled “Crossroads In The Gorge” and is available for purchase by contacting me on Facebook or by using the Contact Form on my website.(Note, I do not share or sale contactinformation. EVER)
Tonight’s bonus Image is titled “The Low Road And The High Road ” and is also available for purchase.
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“I wanna play too.” The young boy mumbled in a hushed voice as he pressed his little head against the locked gate. He had watched the older boys out on field catching fly balls and running the bases. He just knew in his heart that he could impress them if they would just give him a chance. All he needed was for someone to unlock the gate.
At some point we’ve all been the outsider. The one who just needed a chance. It’s the loneliest feeling in world to think that you’re unwanted and underappreciated. But it’s not always a lock and chain that keeps us out. More often than not it’s our own anxiety. It’s the fence that we put around ourselves and a chain forged from our own fears. When we do this it’s like we give the key to someone else and wait to see if they open the lock. Tonight as I look at the locked gate in my photo I wonder how many times I’ve fenced myself out and given the key to someone who had a gate of their own and was too preoccupied with their own lock to notice that I wanted them to open mine? Well then. If that’s the case then maybe it’s time to unlock the gate ourselves and march out onto the field and swing for the bleachers. Who knows, we might even score a home run.
In an ancient kingdom in a far away land the young recruits of the kings army gathered to meet the Man At Arms. It was his job to turn peasants into warriors. They were undisciplined . They wandered about the yard gawking at everything. They spoke in loud voices about irrelevant topics. They paid no attention to the surroundings. The Man At Arms raised his hand and gave a sign to the watchers on the castle walls. The drums began a loud tattoo and the heavy oaken doors opened slowly. A hush falls over the recruits. He doesn’t speak a word at first. The young men instinctively follow him inside where there in the torchlight hang rows of battered and cracked shields. The Man At Arms speaks. “This is the Hall Of Honor. The men who once held these shields did not turn and run. They stared in the face of our enemies and held their ground. They proved their worth in heat of battle and kept the kingdom.” The young men marveled at the condition of shields on the walls. Dented, broken, scarred and in ruin all except for one shield at the end of the hall. It would have been in perfect condition had not been for heavy Patina of oxidation. The plaque beneath the unused shield read, Ashes to ashes and dust to dust. He fought no battle and his armor did rust. The Man At Arms noticed one of the recruits reading the plaque. “This man was a coward and always avoided confrontation. Nobody remembers his name.
After publishing the picture of Tiny several days ago one my coworkers on my day job pointed out a second turtle making his way along the outside of the office. All I had at the moment was my cellphone but I decided to walk over take a snapshot. He was fairly big for an Eastern Box Turtle. However as you can see he’s been through the wringer. Because he’s missing an eye I decided to name him Popeye after the famous cartoon sailor. His shell has sustained quite a bit of damage that seems to have healed over. I can tell that some scars are older. This kind of damage means bird attacks. (Larger birds will try to peck through the shell . ) He didn’t try to hide when I got close and I almost think he was daring me to try and pick him up. It’s the first time I’ve ever actually worried about being bitten by a box turtle. Popeye has certainly won his place in the Hall Of Honor. He also taught me that even though a battle will leave you with scars; victory is possible. It’s going to happen eventually. Eventually we all get a battle scar here and there. Some of us are going to have quite a few. But the scar is evidence of surviving the battle. Means you’re gaining experience, wisdom and strength. As long as you don’t give up the fight you’ll earn your place of honor.