A bright, bright morning here in Georgia, if a bit cool for my taste. It is clearly springtime – the blooms come on and on. Squirrels rattle the bird feeder. The birds tell each other about it. (Ever notice that the smallest birds make the most noise? Like people…).
When I was a little boy in south Texas, I woke from a nap and wandered outside, looking for my mother. A beautiful spring morning, all aglow. I found Mom working in a little flower garden. I didn't know it was there, a spot I’d never noticed. She was laughing, chopping weeds, perspiration dripping from her face. Rows upon rows of blossoms, and Mom had done it, her own labor, happily spent. “Come in, Sonny. Look at this!”
I hold onto that image of pure, distilled joy. I close my eyes and bring back the splendor of that garden, Mom swinging her hoe and humming those tuneless tunes of hers.
That image is my retreat. When troubles find me, pain grabs, or I can’t see my way out of the darkness, I bring that memory to the fore, picking out the light, the warmth, the morning sounds. And my mother’s pleasure in it. I think the best, the happiest memories, are the quiet ones.
Each of us needs a retreat, a secret place, to get away from the overwhelming demands of life. In youth we looked to a physical place, maybe a cabin on a lake, as I once had (and Wes P. and Bob G. did, too). We are now of a certain age, and maintenance of a cabin becomes problematic. So, we find retreat in a quiet memory, a soothing of the soul, an appreciation of what life has given us.
Where is your retreat?
Dac
3/29/2010
“It is very simple to be happy, but it is very difficult to be simple.” – Poet Rabindranath Tagore