Give me a field of wildflowers, a bit of blue sky, and a skirt to twirl–freedom and breath, breathing and freedom.
We’ll take our blanket on the ground and pick wishes to blow in the wind. I’ve grown tired, my frame weak and feeble, weary from the raising and the carrying and the wiping brows and bottoms of little people. But this is holy work. And sometimes holy work needs a breath of fresh air and a barefoot dance.
There is glory in the slow passing of time. Patience runs quick and shallow under the hollow earth; flowing swift, then at once colliding!—the roots of necessity. Fervor for efficiency and perfection give way to soul shaping, the weight of eternity’s calling careening waters. We meet at this slow place.
The wind blows and we name shapes in the clouds. I twist flowers into a crown…fingers remembering the long lost art. She wears it like a daughter should. Laughing. Proud. Free. I make a mental note to write her a letter to remind her to always be this way. Peaceful. Content. A grace.
The wildflowers, the wind whistling through the trees, the great expanse of blue. Quiet, simple joys. Butterfly kisses and laughing grins.
I’ll return the bottle to the shelf safe for another day. And I’ll trust. In this moment. Life is still here. Holy work, though painful, still good. Joy waiting. The air…still freeing.