The sun is now rising and casting an orange-mauve glow to the horizon. A mist rising from the creek makes the trees seem suspended on a cloud. As I walk the dogs, I can see the new horse farm on the hill behind us and the thoroughbreds grazing in the field, new foals at their sides. Here and there a chorus of the robins, mourning doves, and wrens accompanied by the stilted percussion of a turkey’s gobble form an orchestra for the ear. A rabbit darts across our path and into sanctuary of the wooded shadows. Deer grazing on violets across the field, at first nonplussed by our presence, continue munching their sweet treasure and the scent of honeysuckle flavors the crisp morning air like an incense.
This is why farmers work as hard as they do.
There is a connection to this land, to this place. It is not a getaway to a local park and home again to asphalt, steel and cement. Every inch of bluegrass, fescue, and dandelion feeds the soul. The cherry trees, soaring towards the sky, uplift man’s existence. The red-brown earth returns him to his place, reminds him of his origin. A miniscule spot, a fleeting life, his seventy-odd years a fly speck of creation, here the wealth and abundance that surrounds cannot be tallied in an account book or locked away in a vault. It is a wealth not measured by the dollar sign or material acquisitions, but by a knowledge that he, no matter his social achievement, is insignificant to the grand order of things. Success for him is simply his participation.
If the world ends today, he is content. He’s already in heaven.