Would you believe I was restless this morning? Probably the two cups of strong coffee. I could not settle down to work with words or images. Finally I began picking through a box with writing from years past — letters never mailed, musings, unfinished stories, etc. I forgot to date the paper, but I expect the following piece was written around Father’s Day nearly fifteen years ago. I probably wrote it while sitting on the back porch of my childhood home in Virginia. After reading the words, would you believe I felt grounded?
The sun shines bright and a cool breeze blows. Spring has not yet arrived but I feel the change in the air.
Spring arrives and yet my father’s vegetable garden lies fallow. Let it rest as he now rests. His long journey has ended.
Let the land rest. Rest your head, child. Sit still for it is the day of rest. A verb that is used so often. What does it mean, to rest?
A rest in music. A rest between words on paper.
To let your heart rest …
Resting seems scary somehow right now.
If one does rest, is it possible to pause for too long? If so, what will quicken the heart, the spirit? Will it be the sun’s rays, a cool breeze against bare skin, a lover’s lips? Perhaps a bird’s song.
What if there is no breeze, no sun, no lover?
There are plenty of birds, though, even in the empty garden. I suppose there are still seeds there beneath the earth.
What are those seeds doing there?
Well, I suppose my father would say that they are resting.
Yes, resting is what he would say.
The seeds are resting in the arms of the Earth awaiting their chance to grow.
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