Miracles of a Minor Key

“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink,* or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air; they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? And can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life?* And why do you worry about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which is alive today and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you—you of little faith? Therefore do not worry, saying, “What will we eat?” or “What will we drink?” or “What will we wear?” For it is the Gentiles who strive for all these things; and indeed your heavenly Father knows that you need all these things. But strive first for the kingdom of God* and his* righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. So do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. Today’s trouble is enough for today.” Matthew 6:25-34

I try to make a habit of reading the meditations found at www.forwardmovement.org. Some days I nod affirmatively, having been blessed with recognition, understanding, having been touched. Some days I read with a leaden heart , not so much in rejection, but maybe worse, with disinterest. It’s not that I wake up and decide just to bear the day, moving robot-like through one minor accomplishment after another. Some days just start out that way or develop that way. Aside from the miracle of waking from sleep, the miracle of our body commanding us to sleep for a long stretch in the glorious dark, quiet hours of night, I long for miracles every day. Some days I just don’t recognize them. I move through the haze, slugglish.

The other morning, as I sat at my laptop, intent on Forward Movement, I heard the miracle. They’re at it again. Daybreak is happening, and the maven songsters are vocalizing their intentions. What was a chorus of various at first gave way to singular calls as daylight established itself. As well documented and explained as these songs may be, I like to think of them as miracles.

Such was the pot of coffee I made that morning—the best pot of coffee. Everything worked. Although those who say they know about things—all kinds of things—advise us endlessly, making money off of our innocence, it remains a mystery to me what miracle comes together for that perfect pot—spring water, whole beans freshly ground, stovetop percolator, Chemex drip with unbleached paper filter, or some other barrista  hype. Should I draw the water the night before? The bottom line for me is the taste I associate with Mrs. Olson’s favorite brew, yet I have found no guarantees there either. It’s easier to understand the rudiments of what makes birds sing. For that we can just go to the Internet, or take the old fashioned route to the library.

Such was my discovery of art in my garden two days ago, art that I had constructed from river rock and old brick a few years back. I don’t have to wonder anymore how sidewalks get lost under thickets of San Augustine grass, such as I uncovered in front of an old house I bought several years ago in the little town nearby.  In the  garden my artwork work had been claimed by the build up of soil shifting and resettling outside of the beds. Thursday had been a day to dread of a sort. It was one more job on my list of things-to-do before leaving here for the next four months. That part of the garden has gone loved too little for a while. The shed that I intended to be a respite has become, like everything here, a warehouse of sorts. I refuse to build another barn, or add anything more that becomes yet another repository. I have taken my stand in the shed. Facing west from that tall, wonderful space open to the air you look square onto my garden cross, more evidence of the patchwork, emblems concerning life here in Leon County since the year 2000. Art sometimes grows out of necessity. I needed to make that cross four years ago. It has become more beautiful, now uncovered, the bricks rotated here and there, the crushed granite washed away, a little, among the rock.

This garden is filled with many miracles—plant materials, wildlife such as my songsters, lately a family of rabbits, and my brand of art—paths and beds and bottle trees, old pots empty and landed haphazardly here, and there, relic gates, and a primitive cross. I don’t have to remember too far back to visualize the wild grasses that prospered in that undeveloped area when I lay claim to it. Fly-by-the-seat-of-the-pants art…that’s my claim. Cross grew into beds, grew into trees, grew into an open-air shed with electricity and ceiling fan, running water and a water fall, and a patio for sitting on to gaze at my cross. As I prepare to head west and north for a few months, I am comforted to have uncovered this miracle of a minor key, one that had become lost, absorbed into yet another item on a list reminding me of things to do, reminding that maybe I’ve wanted too much. Maybe I’ve worried too much about losing so much, filling the void with my shovel and sweat. The more things you own, the more your things own you.

Miracles of a Minor Key—Normangee Texas (April 26, 2008)

R. Harold Hollis