SWORDFERN
Rooted, I used to think.

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Giving Notice - Friday, Sept. 29, 2017
Accepting Offers - Tuesday, Sept. 26, 2017
Indian/Polish Wedding - Thursday, Sept. 21, 2017
The Builder - Wednesday, Sept. 13, 2017
Rupert Part II - Sunday, Sept. 10, 2017


Friday, May. 16, 2003 @ 1:09 pm
Slow and Humble



Like slowcooked soda bread
Wholemeal, wholewheat
Pace life by, walk, clip, clop
Past stone walled farm houses
And wind twisted oaks
Freckled faces, a wave of the hand
Big Brown Mare canters
Over the seafield.
And the windmills turn beyond.

I am humbled. I sweep the yard, again and even again to please her critical eye. It is never good enough. My hands bleed. At night I can see my breath when we sit around the kitchen table.

What for? Why am I here, doing this work that is so far below me? To learn that no work is below me.

I now crave praise from her, any word of gratitude, and still not one thank you.

I strain further; perhaps I just did not hear her words. And then I see the praise. She trusts me to ride the horses down to the seafield. Then she paired me with Flash, a locomotive of a horse, and told me to gallop him down until hed had enough. Sand spraying and hooves splashing pounding the beach, his ears pitch forward and he grunts in pleasure.

The saddle feels right again. My hips relax into the leather, and I close my eyes to feel each leg moving independently of the other. 1, 2, 3, 4. The lilt of the walk. The pace of life.

In one week I have honeymooned in a world of slow food and fast jokes. Ive been surrounded with sheep, peacocks, geese and people. The rain falls (of course) on the Isle of Green and tonight I fall asleep with an appreciation for the way things used to always be done.

I never planned this to be a vacation, but somewhere along the way this became a higher education more valuable than university ever could have been.


Roots | Shoots