What You Are Given

I found an acorn on the ground, and it passed the initial test of viability: when I placed it in a cup of water, it sank to the bottom. Next comes a hibernation period, and we’ll see if it sprouts. A tiny but hopeful endeavor.

More good news: I woke up at 3 a.m. Sunday morning and couldn’t get back to sleep. Then I remembered the Perseid meteor shower, and I went outside to watch the sky. With or without shooting stars, it was a beautiful summer night, filled with cricket song. But I was treated to a brief display of wonder as several bright meteors streaked across the blackness.

Now I am preparing homemade lasagna for special friends who are coming to our house this evening. A mess in the kitchen, rich aromas, Italian music. There is so much joy in cooking for loved ones.

The local market even had dandelion greens, which I remember my grandfather gathering for salad oh so long ago. I had never imagined such weeds as being edible, but my grandfather harvested them with pleasure. I shall make a salad of dandelion greens in his honor, with oranges and thin slices of sweet red onions. Why not? I’m feeling creative.

A few days ago I went into town with two little girls and we poked around in the book store and thrift shops and had big cups of melty ice cream. Later, I found pretzels and Nutella in small portable packages to tuck into a backpack, perhaps. I bought some for the Bike Babes, who are coming here for a reunion this weekend and will probably appreciate a bit of chocolate-hazelnut spread while on the trail. So decadent and convenient.

I hiked with a neighbor yesterday, someone funny and smart. A row of clouds mirrored the shapes of the hills, a black cow stood in our path blinking, and we talked so much we didn’t even notice the climbing.

And right now the fog has settled over this ranch, and the worries of the world feel quite remote, and everything seems muffled and calm.

I get pretty wobbly sometimes. No one can know how near each of us may veer to the edge of despair. The world is beyond my understanding, and I have no answers. But I am grateful for the tonics, gifts, and distractions that come my way. And I know that I am privileged to bear witness.

It brings to mind the brilliant Jane Hirshfield, who writes, in her poem August Day:

You work with what you are given —
today I am blessed, today I am given luck.
It takes the shape of a dozen ripening fruit trees,
a curtain of pole beans, a thicket of berries.
It takes the shape of a dozen empty hours.
In them is neither love nor love's muster of losses,
in them there is no chance for harm or for good.
Does even my humanness matter?
A bear would be equally happy, this August day,
fat on the simple sweetness plucked between thorns.
There are some who may think, "How pitiful, how lonely."
Other must murmur, "How lazy."
I agree with them all: pitiful, lonely, lazy.
Lost to the earth and to heaven,
thoroughly drunk on its whiskeys, I wander my kingdom.