I slowly sank into a deep and delicious nap on my side of the recliner couch yesterday after we got home from a nearly nonstop market day (well, when I say “after”, that means after we unloaded the truck, put the remaining inventory away, cleaned the kitchen, had lunch and hung laundry). I can’t recall the last time I gave in to such indulgent midday surrender, heeding my body’s insistence on resting. I must have needed it because I didn’t dream or hear Patrick fire up the sickle bar trimmer and take down the stand of last year’s pampas grass stalks, all tan and tawny, or notice that Xena claimed her spot at my feet, curled into a perfect circle of fur. Two hours later, I woke up as slowly as I’d drifted off, stretched and wandered into the kitchen to make dinner—cumin noodles with ground turkey, one of Patrick’s favorites.

So far in my time on the planet, I’ve noticed that life seems to be mostly about motion and contrast. Other elements flow from these, of course, but there’s a significant measure of either or both in pretty much everything I set my hands to in a given day. The past several weeks have been a relentlessly paced double-header of accomplishment and too much on our plates, taking it in turns and leaving us feeling a bit conflicted about whether we’re making any progress on our to-do lists. Then for no reason, in a pause during dinner (once again from my perch on the couch), my eyes land on the whirring blur of a hummingbird’s wings at the feeder before he darts off toward a nest I’ll probably never see, one that took hours to build and is, fingers crossed, cozily housing his offspring that will grow too fast and fly thousands of miles from here just before the leaves turn. This morning, there’s a bee on the inside of the screen, meticulously walking the tiny squares of mesh in an apian Etch-a-Sketch pattern, hoping to find his way to the other side where there’s more green space and clover. Here I sit in between granola batches and these paragraphs, watching…and learning.

On my morning walks, when I get to the section of woods where I step into this entirely different world altogether—one rich with color and mystery and perfect acoustics for the birds who have so much to say—I ache to sit on one of the massive fallen black walnut trunks and just be absorbed into it all, not go to work, not go back to the house to make breakfast. Just be there. But I don’t and I regret it. Every time. I make up for it a little by working my way through the fields and into the smaller woods north of the meadow where I’ve placed a curb-gleaned antique wicker love seat beneath an apple tree. The curved back pushes up against a thicket of mutliflora rose and blackberry vines, trimmed just enough to not get tangled up in my hair. Five or so feet away, the creek curves along a steep bank and when I’m still and there’s a break in the bird overture above my head, I can hear it tumble and splash over the rocks and exposed tree roots. I pause here a bit longer, head bowed in a sweet mix of wonder and gratitude. I’m still not exactly sure what I did to be gifted with all this. And then I remember that’s now how It All Works. Luck and a few good choices.

On the days when I wonder about my place in the big picture of things, I’ll remember the bee on the screen, the nap that pulled me into its warm embrace and hummingbird babes, hidden from view. All in motion, all in contrast against a backdrop of life going on.