According to my square of dark chocolate, I am exactly where I am supposed to be. Whew. That is a huge relief, because I WAS starting to wonder if I wasn't completely misplaced.
You know? You get that feeling that you're just totally completely in the wrong place? Doing the wrong thing? With the wrong people? Hell, sometimes, I'm firmly convinced that I'm not even the right person. Like there was some sort of birthing mix up and I was really supposed to be someone else.
But no, there it was, in no uncertain terms in shiny silver letters:
"You are exactly where you are supposed to be." Love, Dove
Have you noticed how the objects in our lives are telling us things all the time? Like the cup my iced tea came in is telling me I need to go to a website to see how this cup impacts greenhouse gasses. Or how the lid on my juice admonished me the other day that "those who get too big for their britches will be exposed in the end." Yikes! My shopping bag is yelling at me, in large green letters to "RECYCLE ME!" (or else?) My grocery receipt would like me to know how valuable my opinion is and that they really need my feedback on my shopping experience. Sure, I'd be happy to give them feedback, just as soon as I check up on my cup, take a trip to the recycle bin and buy new pants.
It all gets to be just a bit too much sometimes. I'm going to call it "directive pollution."
Feel free to add that to your vernacular.
You know? You get that feeling that you're just totally completely in the wrong place? Doing the wrong thing? With the wrong people? Hell, sometimes, I'm firmly convinced that I'm not even the right person. Like there was some sort of birthing mix up and I was really supposed to be someone else.
But no, there it was, in no uncertain terms in shiny silver letters:
"You are exactly where you are supposed to be." Love, Dove
Have you noticed how the objects in our lives are telling us things all the time? Like the cup my iced tea came in is telling me I need to go to a website to see how this cup impacts greenhouse gasses. Or how the lid on my juice admonished me the other day that "those who get too big for their britches will be exposed in the end." Yikes! My shopping bag is yelling at me, in large green letters to "RECYCLE ME!" (or else?) My grocery receipt would like me to know how valuable my opinion is and that they really need my feedback on my shopping experience. Sure, I'd be happy to give them feedback, just as soon as I check up on my cup, take a trip to the recycle bin and buy new pants.
It all gets to be just a bit too much sometimes. I'm going to call it "directive pollution."
Feel free to add that to your vernacular.
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