#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream
Over the trestle and into the meadow on the other side of the river, we walked this Sunday morning when everything was quiet but the birds.
There's a dirt road through meadow, toward Hospital Road, and this morning, it's lined by bushy purple clover and dandelions and field grasses growing high as my waist and swaying, swaying in the mild breeze, and then, suddenly, the roses, brambled and thorned and fragrant, tangling into the mix of everything running wild in June. At the road I stopped, turned around and headed back by the railroad tracks that run along the road from the other side, and there, the roses even more abundant, and mostly lighter pink.
Tonight, I found the Wendell Berry poem below. It isn't just husbands and children, friends and siblings and even the dogs that, that I sometimes live by "unaware." It's spirit, too. My spirit, the spirit that emanates from me, my life, my actions, my list of what I've done and left undone.
What I chose today, to give from my spirit, to offer to those I came into contact with, my children, my dogs, my husband, my friends, my fellow writers, what I chose, was just right. And what I received, in the gift of the roses in the meadow, too, this was exactly, exactly what I needed.