On my wildflower ramble this afternoon, I came to this bend in the road where I had to stop. The wind was playing the corn like a flute or like some exotic percussion instrument, and all I could do was stop and listen. I took in the astounding beauty of sound and sight for the longest time, took out my camera and snapped away. But then I had to close my eyes and let mystery take hold. How can we explain how dried corn and painted skies and wind can heal the wounded soul? How can we explain the presence of a farming grandfather long since passed and the barefooted essence of a feminine God on such an ordinary road among such humble elements? Heartbeats pulsing like drums came to me and asked for prayer. "We don't yet know how to arrive here. We don't yet know how to trust what is natural and unencumbered. Won't you pray for us, sister?" And so I did. I prayed for them and for myself with the broadest of hopes that we will all arrive here again safely... and that we will steadily learn to trust the mysterious presence that sustains us in our knowing and in all that is unknown.
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