Friday December 8, 2017
The Four Agreements
Don Miguel Ruiz
Here’s a little feather caught tight in the zipper of your backpack. Feel it rip and tear when you try to pull it out. Lose a part of yourself. Lose a part of what you need.
It’s a purple little feather.
It’s soft and light. It wants to be
given to a three year old to put on
a Christmas card for his mom. Let him tell you that he wants to use it
because it would make his mother happy. Let him feel like you weren’t
trying to hoard it for yourself or for
a different kid.
Here’s a ruined purple feather sitting
lifeless at the heel of your boot.
Tell it you’re sorry.
Tell it you weren’t thinking.