To the human eye, the cornfield empties itself of value for the rest of the year.
Ragged rows of stubble stretch to the fog-bleared tree line.
Large puddles of freezing rainwater and patches of old snow punctuate the dun-horse devastation.
The autumn crop is obedient to the point of death.
Tranquility is shattered by a rising crescendo of trumpeter swans haggling over their landing spots.
Gleaners from the far north fill their bellies with the final treasures of the field, then rise in unison to the heavens, each as heavy as a small suitcase at Sea-Tac, necks fully extended, bleating furiously, as they bolt for the breeding grounds.
The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes.
John 3:8
Wind over the lake—desiccate leaves scrape indolently at our feet, like the years. We feel the chill of the restless wind.
Fall’s maelstrom of reds and golds is all around. The cool, invisible hand lifts silvering hair.
We are entering autumn of our time together. Some leaves have fallen, but many remain, waiting to be plucked by wind over the lake.
NOTE: On this date, March 5, 2023, Nancy and I celebrate our 57th anniversary. We were married at the Church of the Redeemer, Kenmore. Fr. Roy Coulter officiated.
To the east, news-crawler clouds scrape the mountains, hiding the higher elevations. A kaleidoscope of rain, wind, and fog turns and turns again its swirl of gunmetal gray over the lowlands.
A friend of mine comes from the Great Plains to the Kent Valley at the beginning of the forty days of gloom. He wonders: is the air like this always with these speed-of-a-slug cloud-rags, and the rains?
Today, on day forty-one, the veil is lifted when cold north winds chase the gray and set the Cascade Range in clear relief against the blue, and he is blown away when Mt. Rainier brandishes its swaggering pride four thousand meters above the countryside.
You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hidden. No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket, but on the lampstand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.
Matthew 5:14-16
Long stretches of handling the hooks* with rhythmic certainty seamlessly moving forward on a row occasionally looking up at a movie seen before many times (knowing which scene is coming) sometimes losing track of the sequencing cadence or noticing the row does not look right, counting, counting, ripping out, saying a word not safe for work, re-reading instructions then back on track, finishing the main pattern and refining the border— the final step—until done at last!
For the faces I will never see, you bundled newborns in other arms, my love goes out to you. I imagine my yarn chucked against your chin, but that is where my story ends. Wear it well and pay it forward for children of your own if you can.
