The barn waits patiently as does the cat. The rose is in no hurry either. It is only my species that wants to rush nature along to a preconceived place of what things should look like here in the Northwest as May comes to an end.
Have you ever heard a worm ask, "When is this rain going to end?" Doubtful. Most of you have not taken time to talk to a worm. Admit it. Every morning I save the drowning worms out of the water buckets by the barn, tossing them into the dirt and compost to thrive. Of course moments later a chicken will come along and eat one or two.
"Thank you for rinsing the worms for me," Chicken Named Dog says, "I prefer them without grit."
I can't be above nature. I have to be like the barn and go about my daily chores of nurturing with my soul and when the roses do bloom, I'll stand in front of them, amazed, and declare,
"My God, you've returned to me."
