The Art of Rest

I’m not very good at resting; there is always something that needs to be done, read, written, cleaned, or organized.  I’m like Tom Brady, running a “no huddle offense.”

Yesterday, I was busy “in the pocket” planting some more daffodil bulbs on The Farm.  I like to keep Uncle Bob on his toes in the spring, giving him something to mow around.  I was struck down by the beauty of the field; Uncle Bob mows it with his tractor and a bush hog he borrows from one of our farm friends.  I got my Apocalypse blanket out of the Jeep and took a little rest on the hill.

Uncle Bob is an artist.

It’s ok to take a huddle today; even Uncle Bob takes a rest sometimes.  I’ve seen him.

You rest too.

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2 Responses to The Art of Rest

  1. The land where Proust never strayed says:

    Uncle Bob’s rows make it look like he’s been dipping into the sheepdip just a mite too often. And he had a tractor to do it, too!

    Love to your Uncle Bob, but in my village there are fields with deep undulating furrows, roughly 12 feet from crest to crest. Damned if we know why they did them that way. Maybe we would if Henry VIII hadn’t turned out all those monasteries. Or those damned Vikings, what burned down my village church at least twice, but they date back to medieval times, the deep furrows being giveaway. There are Roman roads run through the middle of fields from here, the old Roman Ermine Road runs less than a half-mile from my house, the great north-south road from Londinium to Hadrian’s Wall. Too much work to dig up layers upon layers of gravel and slab, farmers just plow around it. And dammit, even plowing around the ruins of ancient Roman forts and the odd roadside shrine and ancient roads, they still plow straighter than that!

    Next thing you know, there’ll be UFO patterns in the grass out there.

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