Thoreau wrote, “Time is but the stream I go fishing in.” Never mind that he lived in his mother’s back yard, about as independent as any basement dwelling youth of today.  Time is but the place and space we make of it, and any day is a good day for building memories.  Some are better than others; some are down-right painful.  But by picking the better ones to keep close to our hearts–even when they dwell right next door to the painful ones–we can keep on going.

I awoke with hope, and a little trepidation.  My youngest son was planning to come visit; but by evening, we had come to the mutual agreement that neither of our budgets were going to support plane tickets at this time.  Not so many years ago, a blow like this would have eaten up my happiness till I could not function.  Instead, we comforted each other with reminders that there are those modern inventions called telephones, and MySpace to leave pictures…and let it go.

I’ve made a habit, since getting a digital camera, of carrying it about with me.  It’s a great way of capturing grandkids unawares, or just catching a special shot that would have been missed if a trip had to be made to get equipment.  After hanging up the phone, I got out the camera to harvest the day’s pictures.

With the current shape of the economy, I’ve been devoting quite a bit of time to planting things.  Today, I weeded out the mint bed, planted Stevia and lettuce seed. The morning air was clear and bright, cheerful with birdcalls.  In the distance, the church bells rang out.  Automobile sounds reminded that humans were also stirring about.

A mother robin feasted on the tiny ornamental strawberries that grow all over my lawn.  Sadly, they are not the delectable sweet strawberries of my childhood; while edible, they taste rather like water.  Mama Robin didn’t seem to mind. 

I saw her gobble down three or four of them, and then carry a fat grub to her two fledglings.  The baby birds are almost as big as she, but have not yet fully developed their wing feathers.  They would hop up into the hedge, and then practice short flights under their mother’s watchful eye.

In the distance, a mourning dove crooned.  A pair of blackbirds perch in the sycamore branches overhead.  The air is perfumed by the roses, blooming hedge, and the tulip tree’s blossoms.  The air is crisp, with a promise of heat later in the day.  A light breeze stirs the leaves, making the maple leaves twirl about.

Yesterday, I read an article about a book by neuroscientist Mark Waldman called How God Changes Your Brain: Breakthrough Findings By a Leading Neuroscientist.  As I read the blurb on his website, I wasn’t totally certain how scientific his interpretations of his findings might be, but I was aware that over the years, there has developed a body of work on meditation, prayer, and changes in measureable brain activity.  After all, that was what the whole bio-feedback bit in the late 70’s was about.

I ruminated over how, in centuries past, my gardening activities on a Sunday morning would have been considered inappropriate at the very least.  Indeed, all over the near-by countryside, at that very moment, were probably people who were sitting inside four walls attending morning services, who would be of the opinion that my time could be better spent in similar environment.  The morning breeze combed gently through my hair, the trees lifted their branches to the sky.  A saucy cardinal (who wouldn’t hold still for his picture to be taken) shouted out, “What Cheer! What Cheer!”

In that moment, tensions I had been hoarding all week flowed away on the wind.  I felt rooted in the earth like the trees; the birds shouted out joy in living/being.  A soft rain of downy Sycamore seeds reminded that growth, living, death and rebirth are the eternal cycle, needing no explanation or excuse.