The Story of the Fawn

I write about having a “new view” a lot. But by this morning, lord if I hadn’t completey shed the skin of that fussy, angry woman who dominated my view last week.

Tonight, Jeff and I stayed late at the dojo (he has keys) to do extra pushups and sit ups and I told him that I read about 2,000 pages in the month of May. Then I held up my palms as though I were reading a book and said, “This,” indicating the eight or so inches between my eyes and the imaginary book, “this was my view for the past month…Completely limited. Trapped. Insular.”

“Yeah, who was that woman last week? I don’t think I’ve ever met her,” he said.

“My evil twin,” I offer.

“That was her dark side,” said Lis, totally serious. “We all have one.” Then she smiled…halfway.

In order to finish the sit ups I told Jeff to tell me a story. He started talking about a fawn he saw in the woods and describing its spots in great detail. I huffed and puffed, hoisted and lifted, crunched and crunched some more, and made it to 100.

We all know a fawn loses its spots after a while, offering a new view to those who see it. A more mature view. A changed view. A fresh skin covering an animal capable of leaping and bounding with precision and lightness.

I should hope for so much.

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