Beneath the great pine, a pulling and tearing at what doesn't belong begs the work. Vines already threaten to choke, even before the tulips bloom. Still on my knees, the mail carrier addresses his friendly voice with unfriendly salutations: no mail today. A postcard should be here. They said so. Waiting to hear means a gnawing inquisition of who I am beyond body. I have new shoes for the trip and am breaking them in every day. Flights, fjords, whales, and the observatory on Mount John – all calling. All waiting. I have things to do, Mr. Mailman. My life in a backpack. My kids, my husband, all shoulder-to-shoulder with me. The what-if game creeps and tangles into the holy place. One begins to question the remnants on the altar. Incense you say? A half a dozen crows say otherwise.
Dirt falls from my hair into the drain; a long day is its own reward. We share a path for a time, hoping for the confirmation that we are so much more than this. At least, that is one way of looking at it. The sun sets on my work beneath the great pine and perhaps, that is all there really is.