Earlier this week I watched a blackbird fly over Pollywog Creek and out of sight. Apparently focused on nest building - he carried a large twig in his beak, and I was curious.
Why was that twig worth carrying a great distance when surely there were many other acceptable, if not better, nest-building twigs close to the nest?
Which, of course, prompted me to ask the same question of myself.
Why do I ever think there's something better - more beautiful, more satisfying, more whatever - "over there", when there's joy and contentment and all things good right where I am?
"In the hope of reaching the moon men fail to see the flowers that blossom at their feet." - Albert Schweitzer
