Solitude Before Work

I sit here in my study

Gathering thoughts like blueberries on a field of bushes in July

I tell myself there are many there

But they don't volunteer for the picking.

I arouse myself from complacency like the sweaty, tired field laborer

who has to pick another pail full to meet a quota.

But once I start, it's not labor at all.

Even now, the resistance falls away and the berries fall into my hand freely.

And so I can recall the percussive clunk-clunk of those berries pinging into the empty tin pail

and the symphony of blueberry pail percussion across the field of content, quiet pickers

who have no quota, just the joy of harvest.

Their smooth, dull blue skin invites the bite.

For blueberry pies, and ice cream with berries, or whipped cream on top, or just plain nuggets of rich, blue, juicy morsels releasing their riches in your mouth.

The symphony is getting quieter. The pails are fuller and the berries don't ping.

Another cluster in my hand.

I think we're done. Let's catch the tractor cart back.

Sunday Dawn

Awake like any other day, but the windows peek only blackness. I glance skyward for hope and see a pale gray sliver of sky in between edges of the neighbor's roof and the top of my window. The heat exhales warmth into my room. My hands are warm as I lounge in my robe, relaxed because it's Sunday. The gray sliver of sky is turning brighter and more blue now. Morning is rapidly catching up to the new day, but sluggishly. My cup of dark, caramel black tea appeals to my nose with rich aroma to have another sip. And I do, satisfied that this is the Lord's Sabbath and He will give us a restful day.

At the Library

I go through the turnstile hoping nobody at the desk on the left notices me. This isn't my town. But I go to libraries when I have time to kill. They're quiet. Inside, people are looking down at books or magazines or their laptops. They're comfortable. I move into the space with tables and chairs acting like I belong there. I walk past stacks of books (Why do they call them "stacks"? Aren't they book cases?) I look for a lonely place where I can huddle, open up my tablet, and read or write some words. The smell inside is kind of comforting: book paper or binding, I'm not sure how to describe it.  I find a table where no one's sitting yet. I pull back the heavy, rigid oak chair and gently slide into it. I pull out my tablet as the Velcro on my bag announces my presence with a loud crackle. I unfold my tablet cover, prop it up, and sign in as the bright bluish display glares at my face. I slide and tap on the screen to navigate to the notepad where I can begin writing about "At the library", my writing warmup exercise for the day. Now, a question for you: did I write this at a library or am I making it up?

Open Refrigerator Door

The day after Thanksgiving brings a swell of gratitude that matches the feast preceding it. Here, in front of my refrigerator, I see food ready to tumble out if I'm not careful: cranberry jelly, Brussels sprouts, a container of mashed potatoes, stuffing, some extravagant chocolate cake a guest brought, wine, excess beer. All I want is a simple breakfast, but this array triggers my sense of obligation to use what's before me. This bounty forces a collision of palettes on my breakfast: I add mashed potatoes to my morning menu with eggs. With the quiet thump of the door close, I juggle my collection of containers over to the counter where I'll assemble and sauté a mixture of scrambled eggs with seared mashed potato cake on the side. The smell of the butter cake brings an aroma that fills the kitchen only once a year or so. The smooth, stiff potatoes melt in the heat and butter. The eggs congeal with the melting cheese in them, steaming up and appearing just done enough to slide onto my clean white plate sitting next to the range. My post-Thanksgiving breakfast clamors for my devotion and appetite. 

Widow

He passed in the afternoon, falling asleep for the last time as she watched his eyes shut and his breathing mouth pull in air. She wasn't sure if this would be it--she'd been expecting the end for days. But this was the last. After an hour, he simply stopped breathing. Silently, his soul must have risen to join the waiting Jesus--wherever that place is. Silence. Relief. She touched his hand again. But this time, no warmth, no pulse. He was gone. She made the calls, let the crew in, and went through all the busywork that invades a home when something like this happens. She wanted to move forward into grief, like plunging forward into the surf when it's big. It might knock her down. She didn't know what to expect. They took him away. She and her daughter cleaned up the room and removed all the things that looked like a hospital: the IV, the medicines, the special pads and covers. With all that hard work, she was pushing towards eradicating Hospital and Death from her home. And she would make that dive into the large curling wave in front of her just as soon as she could reclaim her home that evening. And so she did. A normal dinner with her daughter. No more running over to her husband's every groan or gasp. Just moving forward to her new normal. Her first plunge forward would be laying down to sleep. She dreaded the new dreams, the waking up in the night, and the waking up in the morning. But she went to bed anyway. And she did startle awake, listening for his sounds. Silence. Her pillow was moist with perspiration. She turned to God in prayer, to find comfort in Him alone now. Sleep crawled over her again. She awoke again, this time light in the room. It was morning. Like any other. Except this time, that wave came crashing over her, thrusting her down towards the sand. She pressed upward to pierce the surface and breathe. In the ocean, in her room, she was alone. He was really gone. She could not hold onto him. More waves were coming. But God made her a good swimmer. Or a lifeboat might need to come out.