This morning arose with a busy day ahead of me: back to back dental appointments for myself and my son, forgotten about in the blur of yesterday's holiday; stacked phone calls and a desk overflowing with papers and good intentions.
In the midst of the pull to go here and there, I hardly glanced at the gorgeous May day that lay spread out before me: bright blue sky, warm sun, green fields vibrant from the spring rain.
And did I tell you? It is late spring in Texas, and the fields are ablaze with wildflowers.
We often have too much to do and not enough time to do it. We drive past wildflowers because we have appointments to keep, schedules to run, children to take to practice. Another trip to the grocery store for the milk that's run out.
Today, I found myself with an hour's drive to the dentist, and 53 minutes in which to do so. Thinking I could make up time on the quiet, back ranch roads, instead, I found myself stuck behind a white delivery truck.
This poem is what came to meet me in the gap.
Crumbling
Late again, irritation rises
as I pull behind the white
delivery truck. A voice
comes: If you're going
to be late, you might as well
enjoy the drive.
I breathe and allow
the white truck to
lead me over the rise
and fall of hills, through
meadow after meadow of wildflowers -
scarlet-yellow Indian blanket, spiky
pink vervena, blue-eyed grass. I remember
Rumi's plea - to be crumbled, so
wildflowers will grow where we are -
and I wonder: which flower
are you? Which am I? And
how might our roots
shake loose
this rocky soil?
At the next stop, the white
truck turns left while I
turn right, each to our own
ribbon of asphalt. Ten minutes
ago I resented your
presence. As we cleave apart,
I leave gratefully crumbled.