It is a truth long since recognized that time drags when there is something we can't wait to get to, and flies by all too quick when we are in life's wonderful moments. That in a nutshell is this week. I have been looking forward to my planned 4 day weekend to Chicago since back in July. Not only do I want to go see the art exhibit, "Impressionism, Fashion, and Modernity," at the Art Institute of Chicago, but there's a small chance I might get to see a fellow former Farmer, and most importantly I am going to see the Boy.
But I just talked to the Boy and he was in bed at 10p.m., and had the beginnings of a cough. OH NO! I am hoping that this is not the nasty bug I had two weeks ago, which left me feeling TERRIBLE for a couple of days. I am so so so hoping and doing that Catholic thing of praying to any patron saint I think might help. Oh dear...
And yet, it is hard to be worried when there is such loveliness about:
There is a place where the town ends
and the fields begin.
It’s not marked but the feet know it,
also the heart, that is longing for refreshment
and, equally, for repose.
Someday we’ll live in the sky.
Meanwhile, the house of our lives is the world.
The fields, the ponds, the birds.
The thick black oaks—surely they are the
children of God.
The feistiness among the tiger lilies,
the hedges of runaway honeysuckle, that no one owns.
Where is it? I ask, and then
my feet know it.
One jump, and I’m home.