I walked into the basement of the local church last week to peel apples for the church's apple butter festival. Some twenty older adults worked steadily; one or two welcomed me. I reveled in the buzz of activity, but felt slightly out of place. Though I had lived in the area for 14 years, my roots were in a small town near Baltimore. These . . .
To dance with life is
An uncommon art.
To waltz with the moment
To partner with wild, elemental forces
Beyond our conscious knowing
Moving with streams of energy,
that flow invisibly
From Heaven to Earth
From outer to inner
From light to darkness
From life to death
And back again.
. . .
We should have known the flood was coming: a flood of weeds grew in the garden after our recent drenching rains. Now, mid-September, the forecasts called for more rain over the weekend; the ground was already saturated.
When I created the garden more than ten years ago, I created raised beds, four feet across, with trenches in between . . .
Such a rich tapestry of life unfolded yesterday! I had called for help! Forecasters predicted four more days of rain, with the potential for eight inches of rain from Hurricane Florence. Last weekend, our local creek closed our road as five inches of rain fell on ground already soaked. I wanted to pull the carrots and leeks out of my garden . . .
Yesterday, mist hung heavy as I slogged across squishy wet ground and into the garden. There droplets hung together like a jeweled necklace on the underside of the stem of a tithonia, the bright-orange Mexican sunflower. On the adjacent flower, tiny droplets danced on another spiral web. “Spider web season!” I exclaimed to . . .
“What are you doing out here?” the tractor mechanic queried one morning last week. “Getting my work done before it gets hotter,” I replied. “Same thing you are doing here.” He had come mid-morning with a colleague to sharpen the blade on my five-foot bush hog, the heavy mower that attaches to my tractor.. . .
I have struggled to be comfortable with a blog post, especially as so much superficial communication is now shared electronically. How do we really connect our hearts, our souls? I had been praying for the right venue to share my stories.
Then I realized that I could write a weekly story for a . . .