Like all old, dirt roads, it’s ridden with potholes. Which by definition are hard to see – camouflaged by the same dirt and sand as the rest of the road. Some are as big as my bed, some are as big as my shoe – but when it comes to making me misstep and even fall – they subscribe to the school of equal opportunity.
It just rained here for three days straight. Poured, really. I cursed it more than once. And when I set out to run this finally rain-free morning, I dreaded sloshing through the puddles, soaking my shoes.
But when I turned onto the beach road, I saw that all of the potholes were now full of the rain. The standing water caught the early morning light – and I suddenly had a brightly lit path of warning signs, like aquatic caution cones, guiding me along the right path.
They reminded me of people, writers, events in my life over this last year that reflected and filled and guided. They reminded me of my own inner navigation system that’s done the same.
Turns out, three days of rain was kinda worth it.
Image credit: Steve Rhode