In The Morning Light

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When I walk into the morning light of the field, the grasses below are soft and succulent, of green. Hundreds of grasshoppers shimmer a flash in jump as though they are peeling the seas as I amble through the pasture. Their scattered hops sound of rain as they land newly leafed elsewhere. Ragweed leaves sag with new found jumping companions and blades of grass are made iridescent with the winged creatures weighing them heavy.

There is a persistent purr of chirps orchestrated by all of the bugs of September. The sound that is here today, with errant cricket songs, is the one that will be blanketed by the white of winter. (And there will be joyous rest in that silence, too.) I am taking note of the fertility today as I feel the seasons changing, and I am writing it as a reminder that I reveled in these seasons. I drank the nectar day after day and I continue to sip from the well of great fertility and grace.

A buoyant field of goldenrod gently bounces with the breeze and with the sun it makes gold layered upon gold. This morning I woke to the proud stalks of goldenrod and sunflowers and I wept. A human could not dream a more beautiful life than what is presented here in our days on this beautiful Earth.

The trees are changing ever so slightly in color, with the cottonwood seeming the first to layer its yellows and lose its leaves, gently shedding each day. Much else is still lush, green, and giving. Warm pears are plucked from the trees and in so a bowed branch is released upward again. Worms are delighting in each fallen fruit that comes to them sooner than to my hands and they rejoice in the plenitude, as do the chickens. My kitchen smells of homemade apple sauce and simmering pear, and my grandfather’s concord grapes scent the September air, sending me back to my youth and I am waist high all over again. Except this time, I am taking steps in becoming my mother and grandmother. Each gift in the grape they have instilled into me I practice now to pass onto another, waist high or otherwise.

I will be singing of the morning light and the evening light long after I have returned to the soil and come again in the golden morning. Each thread of day, of year, of season, of moment, is a golden bath unto its own. And here we flicker in the jubilant seas like the grasshopper iridescent in the rays, shining long into the day, pretend alchemists to the already gold.

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If you walk through life with one eye wincing, consider all you may be missing.

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Basking in a now cool June evening, pale pink lengthy silk night gown, bedded chest of lace, and a long slit thigh. Feeling pretty to see my curves, and the way the silk follows. A stained glass lamp is stuffed between pillows to keep the light tall to see to write. Though as I scrawl my pen hand makes a still significant shadow.

The sump pumps are churning their fourth evening after massive amounts of rain. In the field and home this week I have begun to feel a farmer’s fear of rain, in recognition of its great capacity lying in the flood plain of the Rock River. The force of weather rang its reality like the winter day I learned wind is an equal force of fire, and oh, how not one can control her will.

Though still I sit with a good belly and chest of breath. Breathing is easier, comfort from within is True, and to feel so is hopeful and secure. How much more calming to breathe in and say, “Things are good and will be good,” than to meander in the mire.

To look myself in the mirror without judgement and see and say…

This is where you are.

Right now.

And it’s beautiful.

There comes a smile felt from the heart, knowing it is true. In that space of contentment we feel it is useless to pine for any moments that are not yet ours, draining from the moments that are ours. Right now.

Longing for future realities denies us of the ample abundance of current beauty. It can rob us of opportunities to learn, to recognize love as it is before us. What we commonly view as mundane or in the habit of normal, a commonplace act, is often a treasure in plain-sight. An every day event we have become accustomed to can be rippling with beauty should we turn our vision towards it.

The statement does not have to be, “I feel better now that the bathroom is blue,” with a swift motion to eradicate the the task from the list.

What lead the tincture to happen upon the wall was quite a glorious moment, a gem of the commonplace unfolding unto its own lush existence.

A hot and humid Sunday brought a dear friend to town for a visit. She wanted to see the farm, share friendship, and help me in any way she could. We decided against field work due to rain, but we would paint inside the house for certain.

She would do the cupboards in the kitchen and I would adorn the walls of the bathroom. Dividing and conquering, our work was cut out for us. We gathered our supplies, turned the music on, and began to transform the space.

The air was wet, looming with humidity, and we took our tops off. Our chests were free to catch the air below our breasts. I painted in an airy skirt with one side hiked up my thigh to further cool my skin. She was bare with laced underwear. Our breasts moved the most naturally and mine jostled to open the paint can. There was no cloth to limit the truth of their movement. I saw the curve of her back, A Woman’s Back, which in a glance sent me further appreciating her strength and my own. We were not too much, or not enough, but two whole women, creating atmosphere.

We went to one another’s painting zones checking on progress, commenting on different room feels. I was surrounded with sisterhood and freedom. I resounded gratitude that I left this activity to accomplish with a dear friend because it made the making of my home much more rich and memorable, texturing the hue a color specific to my eye.

And so considering our riches comes with a tuned lens. The wall blue, the chore complete. Or the wall is ripe with kinship of sisterhood, Good Love, Good Will, hope, inspired hands, and a refusal to hold back.

The desire to make a difference and the execution thereof lies in strokes upon the wall.

Should we desire for abundance we have yet to encounter, may we only steep ourselves in the present and begin to lose track of our primary source of pining as we see, with the glory before us, illuminating the otherwise monotonous, task-checking mindset we can fall prey to.

And that feels Life Full.

No need for more.

The greatest dangers lie in the resistance and lack of recognition of where we are. For in doing so, we demean our presence, the gift of our current days. We undermine what is to be gleaned on our path and we belittle the inherent knowledge of nature’s truth of change, becoming, and the cycles of our own seasons – how there is a time for everything, be it not now, or be it some other time.

If you walk through life with one eye wincing, consider all you may be missing.

Abby Rodriguez – June 16, 2015.