My baby brother humored me the other day when I visited and he drove me on some of his oilfield rounds. He humored me by stopping the truck numerous times and letting me hop out to take photos. Ryan, I owe you some gas money!
I followed the Black swallowtail butterfly a little ways across the hillside, but I was a little afraid of running into rattle snakes or something so I gave up and walked back to the truck…with a handful of wildflowers.
“You are not bringing those into my truck!”
Sheesh dude. (I did it anyway, though I was nice and put them inside a bag I’d brought along.)
I think I will use this post title for a short story idea that I had recently. Regarding that, I’m going to have to do some thinking about it, but I was considering occasionally posting some fiction here. Would anyone be interested? I’m not too sure about it yet (publication concerns and whatnot).
There is something about being here…
I find it hard to explain. Whenever I talk to people about going home
or the drive home and how it’s my favorite drive ever…
how the same stretch of road, northbound instead of south
not the same,
I think I confuse them. At least,
if they have never known home as a place.
I understand home as a concept of people and hearts and souls connecting,
how walls and concrete and landmarks don’t always have to be a part of it.
But let me tell you something.
When there are walls and buildings…pastures and streams,
trees that your great-grandparents got married under,
churches where people came to know the Lord,
an ancient shady grove that was home to revivals and picnics,
a piece of land once home to a tribe,
hard clay soil turned over and made to produce crops…
when these places co-exist
and carry the memories of those people and hearts and souls — my memories, my parents’ and grandparents’ memories — I’m telling you, that is something.
Sometimes, I think people don’t get it
when I say you couldn’t drag me away from here.
How in my mind I can
fly, fly away
and breathe and live and enjoy
all the rest of the world that God has made, but my feet are like anchors and here I will remain.
♥ the scent of maple syrup mingling with fluffy, buttery pancakes in the morning
♥ extra blankets
♥ accepting life as it is, right now
♥ a freshly mopped floor
♥ borrowed books
♥ “Every writer wants to be believed. But every writer knows he is spurious; every fiction writer would rather be credible than authentic.” – John le Carré
♥ warm sheets when the weather turns cold
♥ words spilling onto the page
♥ You are the stream, the fish, the light,
the pulsing shadow.
You the unchanging presence, in whom all
moves and changes.
How can I focus my flickering, perceive
at the fountain’s heart
the sapphire I know is there? – Denise Levertov