It has rained here, for what seems like 40 days and 40 nights. Torrential, gusty, nothing-left-to-do but sit inside with a cup of tea, and pray for spring kind of weather.
Last weekend, though, Saturday dawned bright and warm, and I suppose it was extra-special, since it seemed so long since the sun had made an appearance this side of Graceland.
My Dad is wheel-chair bound, and he wanted to get out and enjoy the nice day, too. Helping him transfer into the motorized wheelchair, I thought it it would handle the muddy trails a little better than a regular, lighter-weight wheelchair.
I am a pollyanna-idiot.
We got stuck here.
We got stuck there.
We got stuck everywhere.
Mud caking up the sides of the tires, motor revving trying to get out of the bogs, and the sun beating down on us. This little adventure quickly sapped my enthusiasm, and it seemed we would only get a few feet along before we were again ankle deep in mud.
Pulling 300+ pounds out of the mud is not fun, and I ranted and raved quite a bit, muttering under my breath much of the time. With no help in sight, and no cell phone to call, if we were to get back home, it was up to me.
After a number of failed attempts in the deepest mud, my Dad said, "Why don't we stop for a minute, and catch our breath?"
I suddenly felt like the biggest whiner ever.
I knew he was right; how sometimes, if we just stop the frantic pushing and pulling of life, and catch our breath, we can then collect our thoughts, refocus our energy, and renew our spirit.
We eventually made it home, caked with grime and sweat, but calmer and slower, too. It was a good Saturday.
Be well.
