The Rare Few

How I love those who never sell out or lose sight of themselves, and who hold their ground like wise old trees against the elements. They’re rare, these few: they don’t conform, or allow themselves to be driven from their purpose by the imagined needs and wants of the societies and cultures into which they’re born. They’re holy messengers, even when they most appear to be dreamers and fools; leaders, when laughed at and trodden underfoot by those caught up in profane, meaningless pursuits. To be poor, but rich in all else, is the noblest of callings; to be present and available to welcome life’s gifts, rather than live as a hoarder and prisoner of that which can be had, but cannot be held. Or, if they happen to have money, and know what to do with it, that’s also well and good. Let them be millionaires, as long as they keep themselves free. For I wish only the chance to rest in their shade, and listen to their voices in the breeze.

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