There is a field just across the driveway from my room. With two chairs sitting under the pear tree, looking out onto the waving grass and the hills beyond, it was one of the first
photos that I took here. Later that evening of my first day, the field was plowed. Seventeen days later, it still remains furrowed, the dirt in large chunks, with no seed in sight.
There is something about that plowed field that bugs me, makes me anxious, gets under my skin. I can feel the coarse rows of turned soil within me, the result of a pass or two
of the plowshare of restlessness. Will there need to be more upheaval before the soil is properly prepared? What will be planted there? I really, really want to know, and no one can tell me for sure. And when, oh when are they going to plant?
A cow pauses to watch me pass on my hike, not moving a muscle, water dripping from her lips. There is all the time in the world. Patience, patience, patience.