Sunday Supper

Sunday Supper

Family is a wonderful thing. Sitting around the old barnwood harvest table, laughing and loving, feeds me like no other thing. We have a new great-granddaughter and at 6 months old she is shiny and new and brings back to me the joy of having a baby around. At Sunday supper tonight, Miss N. opened her mouth so wide it reminded me of a baby bird, eager to try new things, loving the attention, bringing to the table the hope of another spring.

Afterwards I worked in my Shadow Garden. It is my church now, the altar within which I can connect with divinity. Deep within the soil flows the living river of life’s blood, the rain, or the water hose that becomes trickles of water that flow into the streams and beyond. I am part and parcel of that cycle, feeding the tomato plants as they will soon feed me.

Bones of the earth, the minerals and composted life, surge upward at this time of year, joining in that same cycle, giving of nutrients to nourish the Green Realm. In the dark of the year those old bones rest and regroup, enveloped within the arms of Mother Earth, much like this old lady. The promise of new life quivers and awakens me and brings comfort in the knowledge that there is so much more beyond the death of winter.

Little Miss N. She is the springtime joy, the reminder that what’s old is new again. And as we gather together for next Sunday dinner, I will once again be reminded of the Wheel of the year, the cycle of life manifested outside my kitchen window. And I will have hope.

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