Swaying

Stop, look, listen. That’s the key, Pastor Greg tells us

On Saturday morning I rake and hoe, clip and prune and then drag more than a dozen barrels and leaf bags to the curb for pick-up. By the time I've finished four hours of yard and garden clean-up, I can’t even stand up straight. My quads tell me I’ve just climbed to the top of the Empire State Building.

After lunch I grab sunglasses and a straw hat, a book of devotions, my journal and a pillow from the couch and lower myself onto the hammock in the back yard. I lay my head back, rest the book and journal on my chest and close my eyes. And that’s how I stay for an hour. Too tired to put pen to paper or read even a single devotion, I simply lay with my eyes closed, sun seeping hot into sprawled limbs.

I think I doze, but I’m not sure.

Occasionally I open an eye to spot the downy woodpecker, gaudy in black spotted feathers, a droplet of scarlet on the back of its neck. I listen for the clink of ball against metal bat across the field. An airplane drones overhead like a lazy bumble bee.

The hammock sways, wind rushing through white pines like the tide rolling in. A brown pine needle falls like a feather onto my shoulder, and a mourning dove, ignorant of my quiet presence, pecks for sunflower seeds within arm’s reach.

The scent of magnolia swirls sweet in the air, like pink paint streaked across a blank canvas.

There’s a whole list of chores I should tackle during that hour. The house needs vacuuming; three loads of laundry sit in stacked baskets next to the couch. The window blinds above the kitchen stove hang caked with grit and dotted with spaghetti sauce splashes, and the kids’ sheets haven’t been washed in a month. A 700-word assignment awaits unwritten, due Monday morning.

But still, I don’t move.

I simply stop. For an hour I look and I listen, wrapped in the hammock like an infant in a cradle.