As I gazed out Mom's kitchen window today my eyes fell upon the sight of a squirrel racing up a leafless tree. And by "racing," I mean as fast as a formerly non-obese animal can run vertically. By now the fat-storing fuzzy-tailed creature was heft-ready for winter. At least that's how it looked to me. The squirrel disagreed.
I watched as it scrambled as closely as it could toward a lonely small apple dangling from a drooping branch. From there it frenzied itself in a series of vigorous hops and flips trying to loosen the prize. If Rosann Barr had qualified for the U.S. in the Treetop Frantic Olympics, I'd imagine it would have looked a lot like this. Alas, victory was not to be this day, and it shimmied elsewhere.
For how many consecutive days had the squirrel gone through this same ritual? Through how many failures? And sustaining this passion, despite its physical disadvantages?
When we want something badly enough, we go after it with all we've got.
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