The this that lead to that. The intense dark pattern alongside the breezy light. The piece that seemed so random leading to that thing which became passion and song.
It might be like the view from the plane — the through-the-clouds patchwork of farms cut through with stream threads. The green and the brown, the rutted rows making such sense from above like, of course you would be placed right there and aren’t you lovely?
Right now in the middle, I can get caught up in the loose thread, want to yank it or tuck it in before its time. I worry about that character issue, that unraveling and the places where the fabric pulls, and I want to make sure I’m doing my job right.
Some days I’m focused on the working dirt under nails and all the planting still to be done. Other moments the tenderness, fragrance and silkiness of growing things nearly bring tears for their beauty.
One daughter and I have another intense boundary-pushing discussion — she’s growing into that age where I suspect this will be happening more often — and I check my heart and footing and wonder what stories she’ll tell about this woman called mama.
The girls laugh in the dark of their bedroom, and I wonder what kind of friends they’ll be one day.
Michael and I talk after the kids go to bed and tell the truth and try to plan wisely and wonder about days ahead.
There’s a view we don’t know, and it’s made of the unseen and it’s called faith, and there’s the right here today made up of the sewing and sowing, the planting and gathering, the being and seeing, the listening and working. Doing the next thing we know, even when we can’t see how it’s going to turn out.