A hilly, unbroken plain rolls out to meet the horizon. The wind blows unceasing here; there are no trees to discourage it. Waist-high grass whips and bows beneath the barrage, lapping like waves of a yellow ocean.
You would think, after years of beating, the wind would rip the grass from the earth and carry it off. How can the roots still cling to such battered blades, year after tormenting year? Yet they do. They burrow ever deeper, twining themselves about rock and dirt, pumping strength to the blades—the strength to stand and wave, and face each new gust of wind with courage and determination.
I wish I were more like the grass.