Where I come from.

Written in July, when in Ohio this summer:
 
This is where I come from. I come from rolling hills of green, lone trees standing at attention, sentinels over a field of soy beans. I come from hills meandering, stitches etched in a pattern that wraps around the contours of the landscape, hidden bails of hay peeking out at just that gathered fold of hillage. I come from warm nights and cool breezes, sitting out on a long balcony, looking out over a green green field slowing filling with softly blinking lights… little messages one to another, hovering above the surface of the field, near the trees, sometimes darting across the sky. The night is filled with the melody of the bullfrogs, the vibrations of the crickets, all swelling and playing off one another, as the wind whispers and plays at the trees. All the while the magic of the fireflies subtly undulates across the horizon. Some near, some far, echoing and signaling one to another. And up above, the stars begin their dance, humbly humming their tune, never demanding attention, but twirling slowly, brightening subtly until the whole landscape is a whir with blinking lights, soft and subtle breeze and a melody in the distance that settles gently over you. 
 
This is where I come from. I have little ability to grasp the majesty of the mountains jutting up from the distance or the vast expanse of the sea… I come from the quiet and the subtle beauties that slowly wash over the watcher, silencing the inner dialogue. It is here that I have learned to watch. It is here that I have learned the art of listening and waiting. It is here that I have learned to see. I have an inner language, a guage for this kind of beauty. It has a place that has long been etched, been taught and cultivated – a place to land in me. Though I love it and gawk with mouth agape, I have little understanding of the majesty of the larger beauties of this world. I have a harder time digesting and taking them in. It is in the bark on a tree, the moss on a rock, the roll of a hill, the dance of a firefly… these have a practiced place to land in me. This place from which I come. That taught me how to wait and how to see the beauty of this world. 
 
It is a gift to remember. To sit as the wind plays and the stars sit in unassuming majesty and the fireflies twirl and the crickets hum… is to remember beauty – my own, the world’s, and another’s. 
 
“It is my profession to always be always on the alert to find God in nature, to know his lurking places, to attend all the oratorios, the operas, in nature.” Thoreau
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