Summer thoughts

Dear Dad,

We went to the cabin last weekend. Saturday, I took the dog for a walk on a nearby dirt road. The road runs straight and sandwiched between a field of corn and a field of soybeans. Both fields looked nearly full grown.

There is something about corn fields that is... mysterious. Corn has a certain waxy green life standing, in almost impenetrable rows. I can easily imagine the corn watching me. Walking next to the corn,  I thought about how the only job of each stalk of corn is growth. I guess looking at any plant, from a field of wildflowers to a lawn, you could say that. Seems so easy! and like the job of people, especially children as well. Just grow.

I wonder how burdened farmers feel by the responsibility of growing these thousand acres of land.  I have known a few farmers. They tell me it's more like being a gambler. They describe farming as being about luck; the right weather, the right soil composition. Trying to find the answers to what works best and how much to growing healthy plants. What makes them strong against weeds and diseases. One farmer, the uncle of a friend of mine told me with a wide grin I still remember, he likes that part of farming best. I like his answer.

Maybe, I should see parenting more like that. Now that I am on the other side again (Nadia went back to college last week) with less responsibility, much less control....I see so much of parenting is a mysterious combination of personality, place, time, events as unpredictable as weather and us/ my parenting, my personality all intersecting to different degrees.  I wonder now, when was the right time to talk about that? Did I miss an opportunity at age six that would have helped my children grow better? With less pain or stress now? What mistakes (  because I know I did) made what difference in the course of coming events? Such thoughts come and go. You don't know, do you Dad? Any more than the farmer does.

A soybean field is on the other side. I can see across the field to houses, a paved road. The soybeans all look almost beautiful, dark green, leafy rows, much as the corn does but much less mysterious. Looking down, I think about how each plant looks the same. People are unique. But do plants, not as pretty or even as "perfectly grown" give as much, bear as much as those close to perfect? Because it certainly is true that very imperfect people can become and be heroic, amazing and give much to our world.

Then, the dog reminds me he is there by pulling me into a faster walk. A mile or so up the road, close to the road's fork onto pavement are two stands of Cottonwood trees. The first is mostly one enormous tree; trunk three people thick, sunk deep into the ditch and grasses. Great arms reaching more out than up. It's a tree, I feel lured into climbing but the dog would bark incessantly. I weigh it out and decide no, every time, so far.

Then the road climbs, bumpy and full of puddles of water, to the next stand, several smaller trees clutching together, creating shade. Standing still under the big tree, I can hear Cottonwood leaves in the wind make their whispery, sad sound. The sound is all around me. I close my eyes to listen. The cool shade after the heat of the road  refreshing. But there is no place to lie down. Lying down under a Cottonwood and listening to that sound is a lovely summer pleasure.

As is eating ice cream, wading in the lake, reading in the shade, listening to music outside as the day ends. Watching thunderstorms. We had a good one that night.  No campfire then but the sky a tangle of different cloud shapes and colors. The sound of thunder rumbling and booming. The lake quieting to silver green and then frothing with the wind. And then the rain. It's like listening to symphony music. The rain is the last act; eventually cooling and calming the storm.

A storm is complete, by itself. I mean, a good summer storm enters the landscape, takes over, tells a story and slowly leaves. Sometimes frightening, sometimes powerful, sometimes destructive, sometimes beautiful, and then peace. I know raising children is only a part of a life. But, it's a big and powerful part like a storm.  And I know this is my imagination but you know that quiet after a storm, when the rain ends? I feel like words, answers? are said just below the surface of the quiet. That quiet always makes me want to be quiet. I wish I could know what is being said.

Love,
your always seeking answers daughter,
Margot