The Race

The race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong. Shall we bet?

My race started fast like a rabbit and strong like a mule. When I felt the weight of the race I crawled like a caterpillar with hopes of flying like a butterfly. Sick, tired, and almost squashed more than once, I found a place to stop. I stopped.

The race continues all around me. But I stopped and attached myself to the protective underside of a palm’s frond as far as I could get from where my race began. I hear the sounds and smell the odors of life in a jungle. My perspective is cloudy from inside my chrysalis. But I have hope. My transformation is not complete.