While I was sitting on the porch, reading under a canopy of maple trees, looking out at the golf course next door-- I realized how thankful I am and should be. The neighbor with a protruding pot belly always comes out and sits by the fence with a Labatt Blue in hand. He is like clockwork, drinking his morning away until, by evening, he's boisterously drunk. Humans without a consciousness of their spiritual roots are like brutes awaiting the razor of reality to cut their existence short.
Roots
26
Jul