Behind my Mother's home there are rice fields, canals, a walnut orchard, black berry bushes, sheep, dirt roads, the Buttes, the Sacramento valley and years of seeding, toil and life lived.
I flew kites in these fields, rode motorcycles, fell, learned to drive, kissed, raked burn piles, roasted marshmallows, played hide and seek, sat starring at the stars, watched my Father work...
There is something incredibly rich about having a home to come back to all these years, to watch it unfold, age, ripen yet remain the same. To find the same dishes in the cupboard, the same recipes being used, my bed with the same view from the windows. Yet the incredible richness that I sense is more than that, it is embracing the sacredness of what it is... ever present goodness. A fortunate fate. A thankfulness in this simple goodness and wealth of peace of heart.
Some might see it as fields, dirty hands and hard work.
And that is true.
Some might see it as in the middle of nowhere, a vacant little town, nothing to do where Walmart spreads.
And that is true.
Some might see it as a stop on the freeway for gas and coffee.
Some might see it as a place of big pickups, hunting, and baseball caps.
Some might see it as just another small town, where high school sports rule.
And those who lived here, for those who have grown up here, for those who have shared every range of emotion, who have prayed together, worked together, been together as only a small town can be... there is community.
My Godson, a shepherd boy? Or just a kid happy to give some dried pomegranates and fresh grass to the sheep that day
Each moment is how we see it, and how we allow it to create us.
