Breaking point

Dakota and I needed some time to stretch this evening.

I don’t know what energy had her spinning, but she and her squeaky toy were overpowering all voices in the house.

My head was buried in work — in new tasks and old, and in worrisome trends that make me nervous.

The earsplitting squeals of “Zippy Paws,” Dakota’s perpetually smiling little plush bunny, nearly obliterated the darkening political docudrama that blared from the television.

Sitting at the counter, head in hands, I struggled to think.

Is this constitutional crisis bringing our country to a breaking point? What does that mean? How bad might it be? Will Dakota stop that squeaking soon, or do I need to take away the toy she’s so thoroughly enjoying? How will I get the work that needs to be finished, finished? Will it matter? Will it help?

Am I on a path to somewhere or am I circling the drain?

Good grief. The noise!

Seventy-five feet from my tall blue stool at the counter, there’s another chair. Actually, there are two. Broken and repaired numerous times, tonight the two mostly-red Adirondacks might have been palace thrones.

I invited Dakota to join me outside. With a flashlight for a sepulcher, I sat upon my throne and lit up the woods beyond the back fence. Dakota silently paroled the perimeter. The bright, nearly full Pink Moon did her part from above.

For a few minutes, we could hear the neighbors talking. When they went in, though, it was just Dakota and I, accompanied by a few buzzing mosquitoes and the soft pulsing sound of chirping spring peepers.


Thank the Lord for breaking points!

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