Almost Ireland

From lime to deep forest, the greens have taken over the landscape outside my French doors. It's almost Ireland, except Ireland has fewer trees. Squirrels bounce from limb to limb scattering leftover raindrops from yesterday. The horses are munching on breakfast and the dogs are restless to play. My gaze wanders over our land and I soak up the happiness if gives me. They say green is good for you, don't they? Light pierces the deep foliage and kisses my cheek. I listen to my husband's footsteps moving toward me. It's going to be a bright, bright sunshiny day. Enjoy.

Talking to Mother Nature

Rain, wind, cold, outside my French doors, Mother Earth is shrugging off her winter wear and searching for her spring bonnet. "Next year," I grumble, "I hope you're better organized." I slog my way to the barn, throwing mean thoughts at her. She rumbles back. We have these kind of conversations often, especially this time of year.

The downpour makes me feel persecuted. I push open the stable doors and scurry inside, filled to the brim with bad humors.

Then, as usual the magic happens. Rain on the metal roof, soft nickers, crunching hay, the sounds of being in a good place, settle me. Scents of soft horse necks, fresh, rinsed air, well-drenched ground, reduce my hunger for sunshine.

I stand for a while in this place I love, soaking in the peace of a stable in bad weather. It is where it all comes together for me, where positive obliterates negative. I think of ill friends, those troubled and in need. My needs are so trivial in comparison. In this place, I realize somewhere there is a peaceful place for them, too, and they will find it. It is no longer an "I hope" thought, it is truth. I feel I've been given a gift of knowledge and make a note to self to write it down.

Kash rattles his bucket. Life hums into my quiet wonder. It is okay. All will be okay. A raincoat of satisfaction slides around me, makes my tasks easy. I toss down hay, clean stalls, freshen water.

Chores finished, I see the horses are restless. I understand, open their stalls and watch them head to the pasture. A little water won't hurt them. I do not rush back to the house, but ease from the barn, wander from puddle to puddle. Rain kisses my face. Perhaps, Mother Nature isn't disorganized, perhaps she is wise? Perhaps, I should apologize to her?

I stop outside my French doors and think about that. She did help me see things from a different angle, but was the rotten weather really necessary? Sharp wind and cold water smack the back of my neck. I look up with a glare and say, "If you bring sunshine tomorrow, I might say sorry, but not today."