It's amazing how service can render one more free than the ideological paths our hearts sometimes chase. I think most Veterans would agree that our time in the service was free because of the structure, the purpose, and the trust we had with our comrades. While I'll not say I feel sorry for those who did not take an oath of service to the country, I will say that I would hope everyone could experience an environment of peers where they felt equally assured.
Autumn breezes always bring to mind my years in the Air Force Reserves and Air National Guard. It was in autumn that I first chose to enlist -- just after a few tall towers were erased from the skyline. It was in autumn that I first departed US soil for lands untold. It was in autumn that I first felt the desert's heat, that I first saw what a gift it was to be born an American.
As it is with memories, seasons, folds in time, a tune, a scent, or familiar sequence, they remain with us. Sometimes the force of our memories sets upon us like a stampede. Sometimes as a whisper. I'll never forget the first time, as a tween, that my quarter horse set off into an unauthorized gallop and nearly threw me across the field. Lips sliced clean by the reigns in my hand. Once the rush of the situation passed, I laughed and loved on that mare like beauty she deserved. She taught me to run, she taught me to pace, she taught me to rest.
So also, the Hop Haus gave rhythm to my life in recent years. The Hop Haus taught me to push beyond logical measure. It taught me to pace through difficult seasons or agricultural pressures, it taught me to take rest when winter buttoned us inside together and the only farming we could accomplish was to be found in our dreams. The Hop Haus challenged me to see beyond the pile of laundry, and to breathe beyond the exhausting years of early motherhood. The Hop Haus prompted me to nuture a community and invited us all to harvest beautiful moments together.
While I'll not pretend that Mommin' aint hard as hell, but the cabbage patch dreams of my youth were to be realized one way or another ...and it has come in the form of three beautiful blessings. My hands are often full, my house oft' disheveled, and my phone calls are usually quite short, but my heart is swollen for the gifts that slumber close. To be a mother is more beautiful and raw, more illuminating and more mind boggling than I could have ever dreamed. If I allow it, motherhood can sometimes break my stride. While not an entirely bad thing, a stride is something we have to find again, once lost.
Back to rhythms. The seasons bring rhythm. The farm brought rhythm. The service brought rhythm. Motherhood has it's very own, unique, rhythm. Yet now, somehow, I'm adrift. I use the word as though I have an affectionate relationship with sea-worthy phrases. The term applies, of this I'm certain, but the reality of being adrift is one I haven't experienced outside of water survival school. I don't hang out on boats, or meander down rivers. My time is spent rooted firmly on the soil, or smiling as I recall my years amid the clouds. Adrift seems cliche.
Yet, autumn breezes and the lack of familiar patterns at the new 'stead prove worthy of my adrift inclinations.
Today I cleared and conquered three closets that hadn't seen the light of day since we arrived. The hammock swings our children treasured from the farm, were finally hung from sturdy limbs at the new house. The husband installed USB outlets for ease of charging and technology use -- something important and practical for him. We are slowly carving. Slowly revealing what our new life will look like here. At times my heart aches for the acres and acres of round bales I'd pass-by at the Hop Haus. At times I wonder how I'll manage, missing the biting winter winds from that cabin. I loved the way they brought the majesty of the outdoors to my freckled cheeks in mere seconds. Take my breath away, I'd dare them! Without fail, the winter wind would oblige.
Still, these bold autumn breezes, meandering through unexplored nooks, they beckon and my heart cannot be made still. The good Lord gave me a heart for adventure and I'm thankful, deep with gratitude, for the winding path it has illuminated thusfar. It leaves me tempted to imagine what lays wait around this corner. Time and journeys are funny things. To read of them in books, as a child, one may believe that leaders were born leaders, that adventurers were born to the trail, and that poets speak in rhyme. As we age. As we experience life. As we embrace life, we learn that to each of us a story was written, we need only peal back the pages. Friends may recall a moment with us, history another, but our souls choose what stamp life will imprint on our heart. A breath, a passage, an adventure?
As the critters stow food for the cold months ahead, I'll take my leave and give my heart space to dream about our new chapter.
Pray you, dear friends, your heart be stirred by the bold autumn breeze.
Pray you, dear friends, your heart be stirred by the Creator of adventure.
(top image Kenneth Walker, Autumn Breeze, 08.10.2010)