Scribing the Journey »

In a month, it will become a quilt.

This land, dark earth soil, turned now and filled with seed, will become a picture of beauty.

Green, youthful stalks of corn shooting upward, drenched in sun and song and they will dance in the cool Iowa breeze. And the beans, a mosaic of beauty, shorter than the corn but lining the fields with an intricacy only they can portray.

I wander the land, lost in thought and dreams, many of which begin with “what ifs” and “what would have been” and “what will be” statements.

The tractors, they’re busy raising dust on fields and gravel roads.

I watch them as they drive past me, farmers waving friendly but their eyes fall quickly back to their fields — loyal to their occupations.

The farm will always be here, I know.

Leaning against the grain bins, I watch the grass bend and the pattering of a robin pecking and poking its way toward food, toward sustaining life.

And I wonder if I too, maybe, am doing that.

Just pecking and poking my way toward finding my life, that career and dream which sustains me, yet all the time carrying me away from the farm where a little part of my heart lies.

It makes me sick, thinking about it.

The stomach knots hold tight when I think of the swing in the loft, the way I used to chase my pet rabbits through the maze I’d built out of hay bales, and the time spent riding to and from the field atop a pile of corn in a gravity wagon.

My children, if I have children… what will they have for memories? The question lingers long like the scent of just-turned soil.

A rooster runs across the yard.

The rooster we chased for three days after the chicken coop door had been left open.

The rooster which, every morning before dawn, bravely crosses the yard and climbs on the front step and salutes the morning sun, waking my mother before sneaking back to its place in the barn.

I’ve named him The Rogue Rooster and I laugh now, imagining the way his red hat, also known as a cocks comb must jiggle just like an antique alarm clock jiggles when the bells start knocking.

These memories, they’re mine.

Fond memories.

So now I understand why my dad, when congratulating me of another semester done, has a look in his eye that tells me he wishes he could say more.

In one breath, he tells me, “I’m so proud of you. You’re living my dream.”

And another breath, this one just a sigh, words breathed but unsaid is about here, this Iowa earth. It’s his life, his legacy, and his knees are giving out and in a few years, he will retire.

But the farm, it will always be here.

I promise that to him, today… because a man’s life isn’t over when he retires from this life.

His legacy carries on.

And the grandchildren, they’ll be told the story of The Rogue Rooster.

For all of you who’ve been wanting to follow me on Facebook, I finally have a page.  Please consider joining the community of friends.  

And also, linking this post with Jennifer Lee today… consider stopping by her blog for more stories. 

It’s a funny thing, to get lonely in the middle of the day with the sun streaming in the windows.

It’s warmth penetrates the room, sneaking through blinds to fall across the bed we sleep on.

“Just a nap,” I told her earlier, “Won’t you come nap with me?”

She’s wrestling with the vacuum hose when I tell her, making this house into a home and she doesn’t want to give in but I go anyway, taking the dog with me.

She’ll surrender eventually.

So we sleep, until I wake up and she is beautiful lying wrapped in peace. And I want to wake her, tell her I miss her and I want to go and do and just be together.

The dog, so plush and furry, lies on the floor… also deep in sleep.

I want to wake him too. To squeeze him tight until he’s gasping for air but he knows it’s just me and the weird way I love.

All I have to do is move.

The dog will wake up and Southern Gal will slide her warm arm across my bare chest and hold me tight, pulling me deeper under the covers.

But I don’t.

I just lie here, hand laced in hers, and dream of five minutes from now, when my life will be the dream I awakened too.

It says it here…

The stars are the very breath of our Father.

And when we take but a moment to notice such a simple thing as the stars…

We notice Him.