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 Darkness recedes from my mind and the fields at about the same hour.
Heavy boots wet from early morning dew, drag along worn dirt paths. Legs hang off the bed of a Ford 350 4 by 4. The feet barely skim the ground, feeling every pebble, puddle and bump, a gentle massage for tired soles. Cracked hands hold onto the truck, fingers calloused and strong.
The sky above is nothing but clouds, blue skies haven’t been seen in 14 days in the month of June. We are wet. Everything is wet. The sky is still above us and the soil is still underneath.
Harvest. Urgency palpable. Truck comes to a stop. Jump off. An organized chaos, a dance executed with precision. Hustle to the fields, to the beds, were the firework colors explode, the rubber bands snapping the only rhythm besides a breath in and a breath out.
The earth brings forth sustenance, our labor coaxing it to our vision. Ruby red radishes, pearl white turnips, deep maroon sexy velvet beets, rainbow chard, a forest at dusk dark green spinach. Soil rich and wet from the rainfall, as inviting and sweet as chocolate mousse. The dance has us bent over, our heads hanging near chests like ragdolls, legs straight, hands constantly moving, pulling from the earth the harvest.
From the hustle and chaos I catch a glance of her at work. She sees me looking and her eyes catch mine, and an explosion rocks my heart and it takes a moment before it remembers to beat again. Full of desire, dreams, passions, love and lust forever entwined; my eyes widen. She looks away.
The whirlwinds blow and bring me back to the task at hand. Boxes are packed and rushed to the truck, rushed to be washed where their colors explode all the brighter, and then rushed off to market… We feed people. Sometimes we bring smiles.
Winds blow across the fields and I stand to feel their touch. I close my eyes; a smile shines on my eyelids. My arms flung wide pressing my body back against the wind, an embrace that has traveled far to meet me. These moments when we are forced to pick ourselves up from being bent over and hunched, on our knees and crawling, backs bent and carrying, you have to pick your head up and feel. Because the wind is strong and free, it is bigger than me, it blows from the North and has traveled since forever.
 Every pore is filled by the knowledge that I am not hurting anyone, or at least I am trying not to. I am doing my best to not be destruction. I am, but not here. I open my eyes, the wind turns to breeze, the breeze turns to stillness, and a chorus of killdeer, mocking birds and chickadees fill the air.
Stillness lasts as long as a breath. The harvest and its urgency begin again. I hang my head down and look back to the earth. My eyes pause on my worn hands which say it all: calloused and strong, dirt under my fingernails and ingrained into my skin, but stronger than they were when the earth first began to thaw. I am stronger. My spirit fills my muscles.
Quiet chatter
Quiet wind
Quiet eyes.
Quiet heart.
Be still.
Love.
Be happy.
The world is better.
The world is better as an ego is stropped away.
Smile.
Last update: December 12, 2009
08:14 am
2 Comments 
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this blog |
December 06, 2009
07:14 pm |
is fantastic!
- Emma Olivia
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Because I love you |
December 02, 2009
05:44 am |
beautiful!!!
- Sandor Stockfleth
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