Signs

My headlights illuminated the unfamiliar sign planted at the end of the grassy bank at my childhood home. It was large, disposable, and semi-sturdy like signs waved outside urban stores advertising tax filing services or store closing sales: "EVERYTHING MUST GO!" Only, these words proclaimed an upcoming sale of land: "Tract 1 of the ____________ Farm. For sale by auction." At first glimpse, the sign seemed a curiosity; I regarded it with little except interest. Oh, that's the sign my sister was talking about. It wasn't the only sign. Another greeted me as I returned from a trip to town the next day. Heading back to my residence in the city, a third bade me farewell as I passed the strip of woods that harbors the place which inspired this blog's name.  Each new sighting reminded me of the oddity of seeing my grandparents' farm (identified by their names) paired with the words "for sale by auction."

Tract 1 isn't the whole farm. It includes the sale of outbuildings next to my mother's home and fields behind her house (not the house itself). Anticipating these losses, I find myself wanting to keep actual pieces of the home place. I claimed a carved bit of woodwork in Mom's basement, removed from a door frame after a past renovation. I want a piece of the barn, which my family anticipates the future owner will tear down and bury. I wish I could somehow keep a tangible piece of the field behind the house.  I don't tend to get terribly attached to "stuff," and when space became a solace to me after my dad's death, my taste in decorating took a spartan turn. When asked by family if I wanted anything of my grandparents after their deaths, I maintained that the memories I could keep and fashion into words were my best treasure. But sometimes you want something you can hold in your hand. And words can be illusive. Even writing now, I feel that tired flatness which says, "This is too much and too close." I feel that a whole collection of poems might catch enough to paint a true picture. An entire book might capture the sunshine and shade, the underfoot-and-up-through-heart quality of my life in those places.

The field, the barn--those are my holy places. More than in any church building, in them I sensed and sought God's nearer-than-breath presence. They were places of dreams--some realized, some half-bloomed, some dangling and broken yet. And it is hard to watch the last mist of dreams burn as the day's sun grows hot, even when the day is good and the change is right. I don't have anything profound or universally significant with which to make sense of this post. Though my mind could certainly find an appropriate passage of scripture or devotional thought, I think I'm content to allow my heart to catch up. It is somewhat sad right now and uncertain, with a great deal of sorting to be done.