There are the ingredients of the ground I uncurled from, appearing on the first day of spring, nearly forty-two springs ago. Red clay, Maxwell House coffee, cream gravy and dinnerplate dahlias. A pale green farmhouse in southwest Virginia, pinto beans cooked low and slow on a woodburning stove. The Carolina Upstate, land of quick rivers, mountain laurel, Wildcat Falls and Beechwood Farms UPick corn, ears by the dozen.
There’s the compost I’ve been working into that earth ever since. Anne of Green Gables and Emily of New Moon, words and more words, Indigo Girls and Carrie Newcomer, Nanci Griffith and love found young, getting older and more golden now. Boys’ shoes in a pile by the door, mud boots in the carport, squirt guns and the Happy Berry. Honey vanilla homemade ice cream, yeast bread and coffee, fajita summer evenings and pots of potato soup in January. Quilts and stories, Redwall and Little House, heights marked in Sharpie on the linen closet doorjamb. More words still.
Movement seems upward, always upward, these days. When my heart aches with all the stretching, I remember I am plunged deep into that good dark warmth beneath. I can spread my fingers to the future because of all the history under my feet.
Gratefully writing along
with other good folks