Sabbath #16

Early morning before light, watching the pine grove and stand of trees across the way bend with the wind, bow down. And later in daylight, scattered debris.  Humming birds flitting at the crimson feeder. The sky, blue. And air finally clear from summer dust settled on corn stalks. Seven inches of rain. Soaked into soil. What is absorbed? The Onancock Creek murky from a stirred bottom.  Directly across the Chesapeake Bay at the mouth of the York River, my father, dying in his bed.

Sabbath #15

Twice in the last week deer in the field near dusk.  Standing at the edge of the tree line. Gaze fixed.  Last night on my book shelf I discovered, Openings by Wendel Berry. I have no idea where the book came from or how it came to be on my shelf. The spring wind blowing/the smell of the ground…the mystery./the old/unaccountable unfolding...a simple wakefulness filling/perfectly/the space among the leaves. And today my husband, weary from tending: three funerals in ten days.  Even as late as last evening he stopped by the newest grave to set the flowers upright, the ones blown over. I watched from the road, my gaze fixed at this man who thought to ring the bell, bring the creek water. The death of a Tangier waterman. Everyone needed the pouring of water into the font. Saltwater running in our veins.  He read Kenyon’s Let Evening Come. This morning he is bone weary and heavy-laden, quiet at breakfast.  It is late August. We live on the Eastern Shore of Virginia. I am but a pilgrim. We have arrived at this place to receive grace from the deer in the field, gaze fixed.

Sabbath #14

This morning we opened the back door and window to the sound of cicadas singing in the small pine grove behind the house. Grasses still wet with dew and rain from last evening. It’s early and I’m late in waking. Breakfast already prepared. I sliced the peaches and added blueberries to the bowl. Fruit always my contribution. It’s taken two days to rest from my journey north. Two days to re-enter, recover the place where I live. Yesterday I rode my bike on the other side of the creek down a lane where a few houses stand. The wind behind my back, noisy in silence and separation. My family, scattered. Yet, at this moment, I feel arms around my neck. Little bodies sitting on my lap two by two, one on each leg, another standing behind. Hand on my shoulder.  And later after lights, small even breaths sleeping  in the room where I slept for three nights. Before returning to this place. This place where rest comes easy. This place where tides flow and last night the full moon eased from behind clouds. And this morning a second journey takes hold.