We Do What We Can and Can What We Do

When I think back to the happiest day in my life...this is it.  It's about five years ago on the farm.  Nora is pushing four.  I couldn't tell you what we did that day.  I didn't even know then that this was the happiest day of my life.  But it was.  I know that now.  That's the trouble with the happiest days of your life.  You can't tell that they are when you're in the middle of them, but when you look back, all the boredom or hunger or conflict dissolves and all that's left is this:  her arm reaching up around your neck and the light of her eyes that you hope no amount of tears will ever put out. My sister told me she is practicing two things:  contentment and self-control. I'm working on those, too. Thank you and this will do.

 1.  Granted I didn't plan for the impossible.  This might be why I survived it.  Had I prepared, I never would have left the farm, never would have packed the vintage green bulldog planter that belonged to Ila, the little embroidered chicken magnet on the fridge, never would have left the potatoes and onions in the dirt.  "Will you please take what's there and eat it when it's ready?  Don't let it just grow and..."  Lynn looked at me, nodding.  Farmers don't say a lot.  He'd never plant 1200 acres of seed only to watch the brown canvas of dirt rise green, crest golden, dry, freeze, fall back invisible into the dirt once again, would never just walk away from a field full of seeds. "We'll be sure it gets harvested." I have walked away from three gardens in my life, not knowing that I wouldn't be there for the harvest. Even so, I don't regret planting them.  We can't live thinking we might as well not do a damn thing beca...

Let the sun brew your tea.  Sip it later sitting on the porch with frost resistant pansies enjoying your company. Teach your daughter how to dig a hole and plant blackberries, so she can hope for some sweetness down the road, too. And when you find Ila's garlic, which you'd planted in your mother's garden two years ago before you left for Georgia, give thanks that sometimes your past follows you wherever you go. Marvel at light. And how the seeds are lifted into their form under it. Believe that this is happening to you, too. How do they know to do this?  How can I become myself this easily?  Under the light. Let clothespins hide in the pocket of your apron and your hair go crazy in the wind. Let slow.  Let sun.  Let wind.  Let light and shadow. Accept the gift of help from your parents and the dirt hauled from the family farm to fill your raised beds. Let her run barefoot as she has each year when you walk the...