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 . . .
Early this summer, I drove to the local church, hoping to find a teen-aged boy to mow my lawns. Three people were weeding the church garden. I approached a solid middle-aged woman who had a warm, open face. “I'll do it!” she said immediately. Raised in the country, she knows how to run farm machinery, how to care for animals and . . .
If we knew that our food was
That the air we breathe
Dances with life
That rain drops
soften and moisten us.
The we too could become
Beings of light
Shimmering in a world
Darkened by the illusion of separation.
May it be so.......
I stumbled into the intersection of culture and commerce last week. A late-model shiny black Mercedes SUV came slowly down my farm lane just after the farm opened on Sunday evening. A fifty-something man drove; a younger man sat next to him. In the back seat, her face barely visible underneath a head scarf, a woman sat next to a small baby.. . .
Sometimes as the soft glow of sunrise
lightly touches a waking world,
I go to my garden, hoe in hand,
To deftly slice the roots of weeds
My soul drinks in
air fresh with the morning,
daybreak's exuberant bird song,
and the pastel colors that wash the sky.
I feel the expectancy of the sun,
calling . . .