For a moment today my existence was perfect. Here in simplicity and solitude it revealed itself:
It was cold and rainy and I was out in the garden still sick with a virus. I noticed cutworms had tried to kill another seedling. But the victim, a baby collard, survived with two of its main leaves. I took the nearest tool that had been left out leaning against the pecan tree. It was Silas’ tiny yellow hoe. Hacking around the young plant, I happily unearthed the offending cutworm, in all of its dirt-coloredness. I contemplated how best to kill it without inadvertently stomping it back into the muddy soil and without maliciously popping it between my fingers. I decided to toss it to the hens. As I approached the coop with the intent of nourishing our cute fluffy food source with the enemy of another food source, a deep knowing came over me. I was the caretaker; the sower and the reaper, in sync with life and death and able to tip the patterns of existence toward our favor. Confirmation of my belonging among the dirt and plants and creatures and rain.