My life—until recent years—mimics a pendulum’s widening arc of extremity, hinting only the slightest hesitation as the center oscillates past quiet with confounding predictability.
Recognizing prior patterns of hollow value does not magically charm foibles into fables, and perception alone only summons the rigid reward of hardened belief. Authentic humility’s hushed wisdom is what opens the door.
Tutoring conviction elicits the mind-as-tool prison, lending it unbalanced weight while ignoring the heart’s treasure of softening judgment. Humility’s charity balances both, vanquishing neither.
The metaphor is incomplete, as are all portraits of the soul, an entity aching to be seen, patiently awaiting the pendulum to swing toward humility’s gentle grace.