The morning is still as this Memorial Day emerges. The leaves hang as though in suspended animation. The only sounds are birds happily and fully embracing the dawn. Sam the rooster is intent on getting everyone in the township out of bed and into the day's remembrances. A lone deer nibbles her way across the prairie. The air is cool; the coffee hot. These are the mornings for which decks are made.
We've been working hard these past several days. There have been weeds to hoe (and there will assuredly be more), soil to turn and seeds to plant. A few forgotten muscles have raised their sore voices to remind us that they are still alive and working. Sleep comes easy at night. But it is a satisfying soreness and a contented rest. And there is more hard work in front of us. In recent days we have been hardening off the greenhouse starts and we intend to begin transplanting them later today. They have been thriving in their sheltered environment, but like teenagers needing to leave the house their growth is limited with roots restricted to that potted cube harbored in that plastic tray. First, however, there is more soil to loosen and nudge into receptive beds; compost to spread; holes to dig.
But if it all sounds like work -- and in truth it feels like it to us from time to time -- we prefer to remind ourselves that it is really a deposit, an investment that will pay dividends in time, each time we sit down at the table and offer an appreciative word of thanks in acknowledgment of the blessing --
-- the blessing of eating what we've picked, dug, shelled, and gathered, but also the blessing of sharing in the alchemy of how it all comes to be...
...and the blessing of thinking about it all; considering it -- anticipating it all -- here in the cool stillness of the morning, nursing a mug of coffee, kept company by emerging lettuces, and serenaded by chirps and whistles and cockadoodledoos.
It's not a bad way to start a day.