It’s something to walk for hours in boggy mud and look back and be able to see where you came from. We have had the distinct displeasure of working in some places where you would look back and see nothing but a slight trail that faded every second you watched. It makes me think of how short our lives are.

I attended the funeral of a dear friend’s father today. I sat amongst his loved ones. I heard the prayers. Sang the hymns. I shed tears for my friend’s loss – so soon after the loss of his mother. I can’t even imagine how short life must seem to my friend today. Far too short I imagine.

I have left my mark.

We are here on this world for a short time. We work so hard each day to leave our mark – we shout out to the heavens that WE WERE HERE. We carve our names in tree trunks and stick our hands in wet cement. We want future generations to know exactly who we were and that we were important. We use a lot of energy making our marks upon this earth.

I thought today of how hard I work to make my mark – oh, it’s a different kind of mark. No one will know my name. I am not a famous scientists writing unique ideas or principles in dark ink upon paper. I am not a heady philosopher thinking of new ways to live our lives. I am not a great poet or artist mopping colors across the canvas so that the world will stand open-mouthed before my works.

I am one of many who will never be known. Millions will see our work. Thousands may remark at how lovely they are or how amazing it is to see something so beautiful. They will never know our names, or sing our praises. They may sit quietly and wonder how this beautiful scenery came to be.

This place is someone's mark. Seriously!!

I thought how ironic that someone, someone who is working hard to create a great masterpiece and leave their mark upon the world, may sit beside a small clear running stream never knowing that that is my mark. How ironic….and how beautiful. I wonder whose marks I walk past each day. The long dead woman who planted a garden where there was none. The family who planted an oak each year someone was born – I stand now in their garden, I sit under their oak and write….how ironic.

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