הפירות של צדקנות נזרעים בשלום

There is always room for improvement. We embrace it, we believe it, and then one day we discover it crashing toward us in monsoon quantities. It is at that moment we weigh the costs of recanting our professed precept, or we resolve to drink undiluted the remedy for our stagnant state.


We collide with ourselves. We shudder, we shake, and at last we emerge from the limited confines of our former self to discover that we are so much more than the shell we once inhabited. Newly open to possibilities and growth, we slowly settle into our new self. Once the cast is set, the atrophy begins, until one day we repeat the painful process anon.


Among an accretion of adversities, Job suffered from boils. Travail can be refreshing in some strange sense. It reminds you that you are alive, and when it subsides, everyday life feels rich and full. It's this hope of relief that becomes the well of patience from which the blistered soul drinks one day at a time, until our cup is filled with parched sands. Some linger at the dry well, while others notice the endless well that is always within reach.