Sojourners On This Planet

Sagging and weather worn, the old shed leaned proud. Its splintered door hung ajar, and mustiness beckoned... please come in. Kicking the door wide, into the dim I went. Then came the sound of crashing, tossing, and shattering. Dust and debris swirled and bloomed as I gasped for air.

Wiping the sweaty grime from my forehead, I paused. Three unwieldy piles stared back. One was for things beyond saving. The second was full of what-nots, those with possibility of repurposing. And the third heaped high with unused favorite tools and yard décor.

Melancholy swept over me… I had missed Spring this year. Instead, I watched from my walker as shovel and trowel were happily digging in. But… my rehab had created opportunity for my family to enjoy working in the cool soil. They planted the seed and young plants, then carefully mounded, fertilized, and watered. Grinning with delight, they eagerly waved me over. I could not help but laugh. Simple planting had given them pleasure beyond their dirt-caked knees and smelly shirts. They had embraced the good earth and were satisfied.

Sojourner’s are we all on this planet. For a time, we are here to appreciate the good earth if only to touch it with a trowel or a shoe on asphalt walkway. Yet, happy the moment when bare feet curl through beach sand or tickling tendrils of grass. Or, when experiencing a panoramic view that brings comfort and well-being. Being here is a privilege and hopefully encourages us to be efficient stewards of this planet. Keepers of the good earth for the now and times to be.

We embrace the fields green with budding produce to a bountiful harvest as we connect the soil with our birthright. A heritage of where we were from no matter where we will go. For myself, I was born on American soil and I am honored by this inheritance. No matter how well travelled I become, this place is my homestead.

Even if is there is some disparity. As a young teen, my family lived on the land that had once been a farm my father grew up on. A portion was given to us and a modest ranch house was built. I was so excited that I didn’t realize the parceling of the rest of the land on each side of us. Instead, my focus were the heaping mounds of dark earth that surrounded the house. I was tasked to level and rake the soil for planting.

Grass seed was sown in abundance. Decorative bushes also found their home. Then watering, spreading more seed and watering some more.. A job for the strong of heart. One morning, there it was—a spread of uneven green full of unidentifiable growth and plenty of bright yellow flowers. I was so proud. My Dad’s farmland had become my own.

Fences went up on both sides. The other land owners had attitude. Property line feuds ensued with ill-mannered angry words. I could no longer even step on their property. Not ever. This is when good stewardship morphs into an odd entity of territorialism - of embracing the land so strongly you want more and more. Sadly, I realized that through this land, I could no longer run with the wind blowing through my hair, proudly remembering the days of my youth.

Some years ago, my husband and I went on a boat cruise in the New York Harbor. Suddenly came the sound of oohs and aahs as we climbed to the upper deck. We followed the surge, wondering what was going on. I turned, my eyes widened in wonder. Before me stood a majestic lady- the Statue of Liberty. She seemed so close that I could touch her. Lighted just so, it’s master craftsmanship defined every crevice and fold.

Waves of emotion swept through me. Of this place I called home, of all the others that went before and those to come. The Lady before me was a respecter of all peoples—customs, traditions, ideologies. All welcome. This remarkable statue fondly reminded me of my grandparents, relatives and many others. All standing with awe and hope in this place, their new home.

Then it started. I began dreaming vividly every night. I went to places in other lands, places where special relatives had once walked, planted, and raised their children. It all felt so real. I wanted to go there and see the sky they woke to and taste the bread they baked with their own hands. This yearning was relentless … every evening my feet trod upon new soil that seemed familiar in every cell of my being.

Then one day my husband brought home a present. A huge suitcase. Quickly, I purchased a ticket … to go to that land of my relatives, to see their sky and taste their bread.

Yes, I was able to walk the land of my ancestors, even if just for a blink. Yet, filled with a joy and gratitude that endured.

Today the dreaming continues…for my children and my children’s children. It prompts a sojourner’s heart that will plant well to a bounteous harvest for now and those times yet to come.

… “and that’s how I live it.”