Field Painting
Back at the house by the creek, the older men are debriefing the End Times. It is no conversation for fathers of young children. Instead, I am in the field nearby, admiring the carpet of plants, which, to me, have no names. There is the soft moss, the small flame-shaped succulants, grasses, heart-shaped leafy things, a smattering of purple wildflowers, green shoots, dandelion sprigs, stray sticks, fast amber ants, bumble bees barreling by. All is random. All is order. The world, when we are done with it, will do fine without us. With whatever time is left to us, we can only guess and try to do the next right thing. That, right now, for me, is to sit in this field and not to worry: God is in his heaven and all is right with the world.