Middle Oconee River

The sun shines not on us but in us. The rivers flow not past, but through us. Thrilling, tingling, vibrating every fiber and cell of substance of our bodies making them glide and sing. The trees wave and the flowers bloom in our bodies as well as our souls and every bird song, wind song, and tremendous storm song of the rocks in the heart of the mountains is our song, our very own, and digs our love.

~ John Muir

Clover

Most of my life I have laid in this bed of white clover.

There aren't many people who can return to the same patch of clover under the same pecan tree that they laid under year after year since they were toddlers able to walk.

I remember the first time I understood that this patch of clover would be back each spring making a comfortable blanket of cool white to lay in on a hot summer day.

I'm fortunate that my relationship to the land around me runs through my veins deep.

I'm not sure if I haven't just become a part of the story this land has to tell we've been together for so long.

The dirt under my nails is the same dirt from under my nails when I was 5.

Year after year this clover grows, blooms, and the bees and butterflies, winds and rains, days and nights pass over it.

Ants march fearlessly through it.

Spiders wait for their next meal hidden in the blooms.

Year after year the clover returns a little different and yet the same.

Like the clover patch each year I change a little, grow a little more differently.

I spread a little more this way or that but at the center I am the same...

I have always been... 

rooted to the ground...

rooted to the earth around me.