Amber Waves of Grain

Many of the towns in my area are islands in the midst of wheat fields. Right now, that which is not hopelessly bent by severe wind or rain stands tall around us like pale toupees covering the wild blue pates of the hilltops. It is a sign of man’s dominion over the earth as well as his dependence upon it; his dreams and hard work and faith that if he plants a seed and nurtures it, it will grow and multiply to feed the hungry…or at least the highest bidder. At best, it is a gamble because the destructive forces of drought, hail, fire and more are whimsical and devastating.

As the bobbing heads in the field remind me, it is time for harvest once again. Like huge grasshoppers, harvesters will dot the fields, cutting stalks and spitting out grain and chaff. Wheat trucks will be clogging up the roads at 45 miles per hour and in the end, the fields will be left with bad crew cuts that darken and rot in the autumn damp and chill soon to follow. Unlike the farmers whose livelihoods depend upon this crop, I tend to take it for granted as a part of the scenery and a source for summer jobs; but this year I am determined to take a minute to appreciate the beauty and promise that it adds to my life.

A wheat field’s showy, golden, wind-rippled beauty brings a reminder that another cycle is being completed. Fallowed fields were tilled to receive seeds of promise that were nurtured into birth and prayed into maturity. Death gives way to new life as harvested grain feeds the world and then comes back to the soil for rebirth. Such is the nature of life; sometimes ungainly and awkward, usually at the mercy of uncontrollable forces, often taken for granted, yet, upon closer notice, absolutely precious at every stage.

FALLing

According to the calendar, there is one more week until the official first day of autumn, but the signs of its approach are undeniably already here. Daylight starts earlier and fades sooner, early mornings are cold enough for a jacket, school buses are once again making their daily runs, the hummingbird feeders have been thoroughly rejected, my fall bulbs have poked their noses through the ground, and the maize of the harvested wheat fields has over-ripened into a burnished gold. One of the things I love about this area is that we experience all four of Earth’s seasons, but I do hate to see my favorite one end.

This cycle of seasons parallels life, of course, and autumn seems to be the season of letting go, something with which I struggle. Whether it is letting go of growing children, aging parents, or lazy summer days, I fight the inevitable for as long as I can. Yes, I understand that life, especially new life, depends upon death and dormancy; I, too, have read The Giving Tree. However, it is much more satisfying to wax philosophically about it while lounging at a safe distance in a deck chair with a cold lemonade in my hand on a warm July day than when I feel the nearness of its cold breath seeping down my neck.

Herein lies my greatest error: the tendency to waste the precious little time that is left to me by fretting about what might be approaching. Therefore, I am hereby documenting these seasonal changes with a determined fearlessness about what is to come because I am determinedly devoted to enjoying what has not yet passed. I will take time to marvel at the last fingers of golden sunshine that bathe the still golden hills, feel the luxuriance of the grass under my bare feet as I walk across my tender lawn, and treasure the simple things we can still do together. After these fade into fall I will content myself with different colors, joys, and traditions, knowing that a new summer will come again in time.