Spinach and Sandcastles

. . . these things reveal a gentle path where busyness is no longer a god and where, in stillness, I hear the whisper of Wisdom.

I sow a row of spinach in the middle of my garden where beans once grew. The harshest heat of summer is behind us—I’m hoping for a sweet fall spinach salad.

I have chosen to leave areas in the garden fallow as I’ve harvested the last of the beets, turnips, beans, and carrots. I’ve chosen to allow the soil a season of rest.

The practice is in line with my own season of intention. I’ve done far less canning this year than in any other since I left the corporate world. I’ve gone to the library more often. I’ve spent more hours reading this summer than in any other since I retired.

Meanwhile, I chop vegetables and preserve the harvest in ordinary time.

Soon, I will return to my manuscript and craft sandcastles.

Later, I’ll harvest a spinach salad.

Rest and hope, a season of fallow, and a season of intention. These things reveal a gentle path where busyness is no longer a god and where, in stillness, I can hear the whisper of Wisdom.

Word wrangler. Photo taker. I'm here early most mornings with one of my photos and a few words about life and those thin places where faith intersects.
1 comment
  1. This is beautiful on so many levels. Thank you.

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