The fields were awash in last-minute flowers. I marvelled, as always, at the way the delicate white umbrils of Queen Anne's lace fold themselves up, when they're ready to set seed, into tight clusters that remind me of a baby's closed fist. And then there were the ripe grasses in all their grace. It occurred to me then, as it often does, how much I'd miss this landscape if I had to live in a city. But these fields are, in fact, seething with a life that few of us pay much attention to, just as the nearby houses have their joys and tragedies, some of them small, some of them not.
Couples fall in love and, at least for a while, live in that particular glory.
People bloom in growth and accomplishment. Creation continues throughout our griefs or glories or periods of complete indifference. God continues to be, just as the asters continue to be, even when it feels that I've moved so far away from God that I don't even know which direction to turn in any more. Because that does happen sometimes. I do have beliefs to hang on to, even when faith itself seems faded and insufficient.