The country wave keeps me company in these transitions of days. This morning I stood on the lawn braiding my hair and a man took it upon himself to pull over and grant me kind words about my twisting red hair before continuing his country cruise.
I repositioned the fuscia-mauve foxgloves three times contemplating the best arrangement for passersby to catch visual hold of their spotted middle splendor. I could not succeed at pleasing each direction though they bounce now in the soft Wellington, Illinois breeze with their freckled middles bare to anyone caring enough to focus inward. Their bells are a delightful burst among the acres of greening growing corn which lays in rows at my feet. With my legs stretched outward I can see a rowed home for each of my thighs through the corn sprouts that seem to stretch on forever- even past the silos in the distance, past that other homestead, and the other; further through the prairie my body runs on. Last night we traipsed through these thigh high grasses with Sunny bouncing in between while we breathed in the sunset.
Within my hour and forty-five minute drive from Antiquity Oaks in Cornell, Illinois to Wellington, Illinois I attempted digesting where I have been, what was, and where I was headed – which, of course, was too dense of a meal to chew through in a minimal amount of time. I found it more advantageous to find a neutral space between the clouds, crepuscular rays, and the weather systems far reaching their dance among the fields. Contagious weeps of sun touched down to the fresh green fields while tornadoes of dust kicked up a previous season’s forgotten corn husks, catching and whipping against my vehicle writhing in the wind. The strength of the atmosphere threw birds backwards in flight. I watched them struggle forth before submitting to the current, but they all eventually swung back with the greater rhythm of the earth. There was a nervousness in the grip of my steering wheel and how I would swallow my saliva. It was as tenuous as the rest of my surroundings.
Each time I find myself in a new space the first week is what I refer to as The Million Year Week. Routine is null, everything is new. Exhilaration, terror, and delight co-create a stretch of days to garble time. The bruises of my body linger from the goats and awkward stumbles working at Antiquity Oaks. The indigo turned tertiary islands and continents are a physical stamping reminder of the path walked for months before arriving to this space. The hearty spinach in my bed of eggs, grown from these nearby Iroquois County fields, are a reminder of how I got to Wellington yet again. It is a place I never thought I would return to, yet is now a place where I rest my head at night. The interconnection of this life and world is sometimes too eerie and synchronicity too bold to ignore. With the pull of a heart it is absolutely why and how I find myself here today with thighs extending into the rows of corn.
For me, it is easier to live guided by the heart when there is a great pull in one direction or the other (as I am sure it is easier for all of us in this way). When the frequencies get fuzzy, however, so can the inner turbulence of the path traveled. The pressure rises to make a decision, to make the Right One. I have learned that all steps lead to another and so in this way each heel in the dirt is the correct press, even if it leads to discomfort or pain, it is part of one’s path. Sometimes all you can do is make stillness your move and listen in again for how the frequencies have settled and reevaluate direction of path. One of my quotes is from Lao Tzu, “If you are depressed you are living in the past, If you are anxious you are living in the future, If you are at peace you are living in the present.” (I know this quote is not apt for every situation, but sometimes it helps me to realize if I am wrapped in a negative mental pattern born of habit.)
My coffee shines an oil from the buttered egg that met my lips at breakfast and it swirls with me now. Each time I find my heart and mind in that space of Problem Solving I cycle through a series of questions and meditations for self soothing – back to my inner core of comfort, a consultation of the gut, focus on the present moment. Or, I engage in an externally peaceful activity like planting flowers with my fingers in the dirt, weeding, or catching Sunny’s chocolate eye color in a decisive ray destined for his face to glow outward to me and melting me in the middle. These moments of presence connect to my contentedness, even while feeling many other emotions simultaneously. These moments are my breath in the whirlwind of change.
I met a woman this week who bestowed us with flowers to plant, seeded from her own; buckets of bulbs that will be five or six feet by autumn with bright red caps, irises, columbines, and so many others I have forgotten the names of. What I do remember is her tight hug and how our bellies touched as we gripped one another like we both really needed it. Her body felt known to me, like a great Aunt who has taken me under her wing for years. She said that no church could bring her as close to God like she feels when she is in the dirt. I told her this week I bent over the soil saying to myself, “Weedin’ is good for thinkin’, weedin’ is good for thinkin’,” and that’s where I find my universal comforts – among the land and animals, and tending to Love.
I do not have any big answers right now. I have a mixture of insights and inquisitions as garbled as time. I have one foot forward and then another. Some periods of time are not meant for figuring out, but instead require only our simple observation. Stillness and observation are some of the greatest steps despite their perceived companion of inaction.
A cloud drifts across the cornfield and its shadow darkens the greening leaves and deepens the off kilter yellows. It grazes the prairie and wildflowers and touches down its blanket across the cottonwood trees. A train sounds its incoming and unfurls like a prayer flag across the prairie, antiqued with imprints of cross country travel. With its double stacked shipping containers it ribbons like the making of a quilt through the corn. Riffs from a country version of Spanish Harlem blare from a vehicle as the driver throws me another neighborly wave while I check the blooms on the newly planted flowers and smile at their hard work of blossoming overnight, or perhaps opening early morning to give us an early reward for the day. Two bees hover forth sensing new nectar, and Sunny bleats his still young song as a request for chest rubs and companionship with his mama – which I answer to with satiation. He falls asleep in my lap as a result making small nasal whimpers like he did in the rocking chair as a baby. I start soaking the lentils for supper and thawing the meat for others to eat. I cut quilt squares to prepare as a gift for the woman who gifted us beautiful flowers.
Step by step, meal by meal, chore by chore, conversation by conversation, love by love, making by making, observation by observation. Inquisitions will always remain, but simply being present in these moments is my guide for now. In the distance, someone plays a harmonica, which feels like a hug from my Grandpa Coleman, a moment in which I can just sit and sip the nectar thereof, while life continues on.