In My Field


I long to sit in my field. To listen to the late summer hum.  To wonder at the bowed heads of left-behind wheat.  To drink in the gorgeous array of color in the wild, dew-dripping grasses.  To feel the light breeze and to smell the rain sodden earth.  This I love.  This feels like home.

I would want to paint.  To know the exhilaration of putting paint to paper in hopes of coming close to what I see and feel here.  To be reminded that my palette of watercolor just cannot do justice to what’s at my feet.  To go home from this place knowing I can look back through the pages of my sketchbook and be here again.

I would want to knit.  To sit here with wools the colors of the field, running through my fingers and needles.  Indeed I would rename the fibers as they fair-isled into a yarn painting:  Autumn Grass, Dew Drop, Goldenrod, and Clover Hay.  And each time I wore the finished piece I’d be able to smell the earth and hear the sounds of my field.

I would want to write.  To craft words that represent each blade of grass, wheat, and wild flower.  Letters that give real-time meaning to the other-worldly air I breathe here. Words that would be carefully crafted as if I had knit them…or painted them.

But I’ve come to my field without any of these.  Just to sit and take it all in.  I breathe in and out.  I gaze and marvel.  I ruminate.  I try to cease all thought.  And then I close my eyes.  Something trickles down my cheeks.  It is then that I have a thought I’ve never had before—perhaps all the paintings in watercolor and yarn, all the sketches and drawings, the knitted and crocheted creations, are tear-shaped drops that reflect the beauty that’s all around me.  Perhaps a need to create is a way of exhaling it out, a way of crying to the Universe that it is so beautiful and I must make something of it or else I’d simply weep everywhere I go.

Next time, I’ll bring my paints or some yarn or my writing book.  In so doing, I’ll continue the trail of happy tears as I bask in the glory of my field.


For other posts about My Field (which actually belongs to my neighbor Mr. Whicker)

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0 thoughts on “In My Field

  1. Elaine Magliacane says:

    Powerful… I must say I enjoyed visiting your field this morning… especially since there are no fields anywhere near that I can enjoy… yours is big enough for us all I think. Thanks for sharing it.

  2. Timaree freebirdsings says:

    Well my goodness, you might not have had a pen or a pad but you sure had the words and the belated painting and if I can’t see your field of I certainly can see the ones I have been in or by. Super lovely both picture and words! Yes, sometimes I think I just can’t express the beauty or happiness or anything else even, that I feel and it does bring a tear to my eye and a huge ache in my heart that I can’t. All I can do is try and hopefully sometimes I can do as well as you did here.

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