We are now in our fourth day of rain. Last night was by far the heaviest. Streams that have been non-existent for months now gurgle and swirl with froth and foam. Remnants of crab grass turn green and weed roots that broke the ground with new growth two days ago now have tender shoots six inches long. Of course, one cannot call it pasture and it barely qualifies as forage, but the horses love to be eating something tender and green. The weeds are still sparse. A horse might have to walk five steps between each nibble, but they are there, reminding that life is resilient.
The weeds are teachers. They teach the importance of simply hanging on. They remind us that though life on this Earth is sometimes characterized by pain and devoid of pleasure, it is not perpetually so characterized.
Small trees have died on my property during this drought.
But the weeds have held on.
Somewhere inside me there is something that knows that one day the grass and clover will return. But for right now the sight of sprouting weeds is enough.
Somewhere inside me there is something that knows that one day the grass and clover will return. But for right now the sight of sprouting weeds is enough.
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