THE WALKING STICK
Paul D. Morris
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We have arrived today, at this place -- at this somewhat less than elegant point in our lives with some sense of bewilderment. For some of us, the journey to get here has not been easy. We, each of us, have had to battle our own private demons. We know too well the feeling of the 19th century poet John Keats who wrote,
Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep, And each imagin'd pinnacle and steep Of godlike hardship tells me I must die Like a sick Eagle looking at the sky . . ." Like Keat's earthbound eagle we gaze with longing at the crystal blue ceiling. We have felt the sting of the Egyptian's whip in the deepest corner of our soul. Like a sick eagle we gaze, longing to be; longing to feel once again the joy of the winds beneath our wings, winds which touch the face of God. |