West Virginia Morning: The Million Little Oblivions

Yesterday, when I came home from work, I picked the rest of the kale from my garden. It was a long overdue harvest (and the fence is not yet fixed so I figured I better get busy). I worked diligently down each row, still clad in my work clothes, letting the burn of the evening sun remind my skin of younger days. Something of the smell of sun on soil stirred the memory of our family garden when I was a girl, and I was lost for a time in a rhythm of steady picking and the company of ghosts.

The kale is cleaned and waiting to be added to a soup, but this morning I couldn’t resist sautéing a little red onion in a dollop of bacon grease, dropping in some greens and tomatoes, and scrambling an egg over all that goodness. It’s my favorite springtime breakfast and it felt like a celebration.

IMG_7200

IMG_7201

Today is Jeffrey’s last day of school, so I was up early to make his “hello summer” breakfast: special pancakes and a side of sausage. I sent him off with a full tummy and a mamma kiss, and sat at the kitchen table in wonder of the way the earth spins so quickly these days.

As I sat before my celebration breakfast, I watched out the window for the sparrow—the persistent little bird that has taken over my bluebird box. Every spring it’s the same thing—I pull nest after sparrow nest from the box, trying to dissuade the scrappy things from inhabiting. But they always outwit me, building replacement nests with such speed and alacrity that inevitably; the eggs are laid before I can dispose of their bed. And I haven’t the heart to toss them. Instead, each morning I watch for the sparrow head to emerge so that I might simultaneously cuss and praise her grit.

I watch her lift herself up out of the box and fluff her feathers on a nearby branch. And as she pushes off for whereabouts unknown, light comes. It’s the same shaft of light I welcome each morning—brought by a peeking sun funneled through neighboring houses and over rooftops. There is nothing remarkable about that falling light; it’s just an everyday miracle. The way it announces the day and sheds over the backyard, lifting my heart as it spreads like spilled milk on the table.

IMG_7206

IMG_7207

IMG_7208

IMG_7209

As a buttery bite of kale crisps on my tongue, I watch the light move across the yard and I realize, as Christian Wiman says, “the million little oblivions of which the day is made”—all everyday miracles.

Good cause for celebration.

Comments

  1. says

    Love this! Many times, you introduce me to a new word, but alacrity I know (and use, on occasion), so I’m feeling right smart tonight. Though a bit tired from a full week. How are you adjusting to a new graduate and the end of another year? Change just keeps happenin,’ right??

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *