My heart is full and my thumbs are free of Bandaids.
Who can explain the relaxed, warm thrum that sometimes moves through us, without consultation? And so, here I sit, alongside Finn on this green and sunny May Saturday, having fallen in love with my children, my friends, my family, my life all over again.
I think these newest seeds were planted Thursday evening, when we headed to Shoemaker's Marsh, where I'd seen a fine bison bone hugging the banks of Little Salt Creek earlier in the week. I cannot tell you how much it means to me that my family loves the life that lives outside of computer screens and man-made walls. Nor can I tell you how lucky I felt Thursday evening, as we trekked together through trail-less tall-grass prairie, wending our way along the eroded edges where land and water meet.
Along the way, we stopped to study an animal track, to enjoy a beaver or deer sighting, to listen to the crowing of a horny pheasant, to gather courage for a leap across a saline-eroded sink hole.
I am pretty sure that, if I ever do end up at heaven's gates, it will be times like this one--quiet moments with good people who care not a whit what time it is or who has updated her status--that I will savor. I do not doubt that these moments are the measures that matter most.
And maybe that's why I'm not wearing any Bandaids, despite it being early May. You see, it is a rugged time of year to be a school teacher. Everyone in that building is on the verge of a nervous breakdown, so the adults come home exhausted, having put on a good face for all those hours. Throw in the stress of selling, completing and distributing a student-made yearbook--especially in these snarky, you-suck times--and you can see why my thumbs are usually chewed up and bandaged.
For some reason, though, I can't recall the last time I have donned a Bandaid. My thumbs, while still not hand-model handsome, aren't ragged and bloody, either. In fact, I am calm and happy these day, unhampered by doomsday scenarios or monkey mind. I feel steady, unconcerned and relaxed.
I suppose it's possible I'm just losing my mind in a different way this spring, but I'm not asking questions. No, I'm just enjoying the view--the people-watching, bone-collecting, family-filled times that punctuate and soften all the hardness we like to impose upon ourselves. Apparently, I've been given a little gift this year, one that says I am not required to repeat the fretfulness of past springs, despite everything. And I plan to unwrap that gift as slowly as humanly possible.
Yes, it is a time to savor. Who am I to question the warm fuzzies?
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