I love Colorado. If J. and the altitude got along better, we might live there. I looked up through the skylight in the kitchen this morning to see the leaves on an old cottonwood tree more than 100 feet in the air shimmering like an aspen in the fall. They remind me of the Lauren Daigle song, “Look Up Child.”
From the ground, looking up has the advantage of reminding us that anything is possible because the author of this grand universe says it’s so. (Lauren Daigle for the win again: “You Say.”) And from that high perch, looking down, we can see all the boundary lines of our lives and remember that despite mishap or its cousin, meandering, what we have is very, very good.
So I have been thinking about the entrepreneur. We have a good many in our family and field of influence, and we scratch our heads often determining how best to serve clients who are tooled that way. Which brings me to the point of barbed wire.
I am also strongly entrepreneurial. When my father told me in my formative years I could be and do anything—his dad’s way of affirming that anything is possible if you believe and work hard enough—I took him at his word. I am still taking him at his word. A few weeks ago, Indeed delivered a very shimmery job posting for something in my backyard that skipped all the way down my vitae. Surely, I thought, I could add that thing to what we do day in and day out. (Transparency: I love Indeed and the idea of it delivering a memoir or biography ghostwriter job into my inbox.)
But I looked up and then looked down. To not recognize that it is fall, a changing season with many more people in our lives to love and be engaged with, would be a little like tripping into barbed wire. Beyond the boundary. Snagged by interests that are no longer mine to pursue in a season of summum bonum, the highest good.
