Please don’t tell me things will get better. Please don’t point out the inherent beauty of my rotten week. Please don’t offer to clear my lower chakras of the energy blockage that is obstructing light-filled messages from my guardian angels.
I’m not one to make lemonade from lemons. Fruit is OK in my book, on its own, without somebody wanting to liquify it. Let my lemons be lemons.
Sh**ty weeks are a part of life, and I don't need to transcend life's poop.
Fortunately, others on the planet serve as my gurus in this department, living peacefully with excrement.
Dung beetles possess by far the most pragmatic attitude. Depending on which species they are––they eat poop, live in it, use it for a nursery, build with it, or wear it as flip flops to protect their tootsies from the baking savannah. There are 8,000 species of dung beetle, so you’ve got to figure they know what they’re doing. When my gardening buddies spread manure onto flower beds, they’re thinking carnations, lavender, and black-eyed susans. In Thailand, they turn elephant and panda dung into paper, which means the next New York Times best-seller might stink, in spite of the author’s literary genius. Zulu women use it to fuel their cooking fires. In Talkeetna, Alaska, you can buy moose dung earrings at the annual Moose Dropping Festival.
If my week continues to feel like a giant cow patty, I will not try to rise above it. I'll follow the noble example of the Aphodian dung beetle: burrow right on into it and make myself at home.