Digging out old roots in the garden this evening, hop on the shovel, mellow ground, and the breeze dances along and I'm swaying with a shovel and the shovel has pretty good rhythm.
Where she goes and how I call her back from it with my time-chained mother schedule as she mixes water and sand and I crawl into the leafy nest under the blackberry bush looking for the green shoots that prove garlic, suddenly seeing sun inches above the horizon: "Shouldn't we be eating supper by now, Nora? Do you know what time it is? I lost track of time. Are you even hungry? I don't think I'm even hungry. I'm usually always hungry. Are you hungry?" Beauty is a fullness. Tree sounds and bird silhouettes fill the empty space with something raw and good.
Staring into Space:
What do you see when you are looking but not seeing? What is this thing in your heart when you are looking beyond looking? And the Nebraska expanse calls you beyond your own sight into the sight of God's imagined spaces, the long, receding line of a life pulled farther into life as it leaves it, a too tight jacket or a pocket watch inside your great, great grandmother's apron pocket as you slip your hand in and pull out the sound of her caterwaul and keening behind the white shed, reading the letter of always goodbye.
A Song Worth Singing:
A song across a million miles and minutes that calls the boys and girls in from their near-death pranks and gives them something fragile to hold, something even more dangerous should it fail because now they are older and they hold each other.
A Song of Yes, Please:
And I could write like this forever if I could live like this forever inside the space of a garden made of all that He said was good.