Beauty for ashes

Regal plumage distinguishes the beautiful male pheasants which fatten themselves up at the foot of the bird table, picking up the crumbs dropped by the other birds. They may have ‘bird brains’, but during the cold winter months one of them isn’t daft: he has developed a habit of starting his day warming his feet on a pile of rotting manure at the side of the house. When I open the bedroom curtains, this is what I see.

Life can throw undesirables our way. My back has flared again, result of a badly-placed puppet curtain which required me to operate my two puppets at a very odd angle indeed. A moment’s lack of foresight resulting in weeks of discomfort. I might just think of the resulting back pain in the same terms as a pile of manure. 

And yet, the discomfort has led to a couple of massages which enable random chats with a physio friend I don’t see much of at the moment, and Don, chats facilitated by the fact that we can’t rush off and do something else because basically I need the comfort of that warm hand rubbing in the deep heat cream. 

Beauty and the beast. A crown of beauty for ashes. 

Sometimes suffering nourishes green shoots of compassion, nurtures relationships and encourages us to dig deeper into our faith. 

A bad back is a pile of manure, no doubt about it. But I’m open to the possibilities of what can come from it.