I have been blessed this year to have the opportunity to rent a half plot in the community garden, right down by Lake Winona. An amazing thing, the view from that small chunk of dirt. I am able to see the sun set every night over East Lake and the moon rise over Sugar loaf.
I spend a few nights a week there, away from the walls that surround me, at work, at home, out to eat, shopping, and am allowed the freedom of space, visually, even if my plot is small. This simple act of being out doors at dusk is a very powerful time for me.
To hear the frogs sing me a song, and after some time the crickets are called to join them. While I am serenaded by the choir of nature, the sounds of the traffic, once so very close, starts to fade, until it seems so very far, almost gone.
I enjoy the cool breeze from the water's edge that wafts my way as I weed to the rhythm of the chirping frogs and crickets.
All this begins to take me home, some three hours away, in a matter of moments. While I was in my teen years, I heard these sounds, and never found interest in them. The wind from the river cooled not my skin when I was young. But as I am older, I long for home, where I must have experienced these things at some time, because they are so familiar to me now.
As I water my tiny speck of dirt on this big busty lady we call Earth, I ponder if anyone else at this moment at home is hearing the frogs and feeling the wind and somehow hears my name carried upon it.