As i stomped my way through the briars and undergrowth today in order to get to the black raspberries beside the old homeplace, i wondered if they were glad to see me. I didn't feel Euell Gibbons spirit or anything like that but the sense that I had was that these plants do their best every year to produce good fruit and many times it withers on the cane because no one takes the time to search them out. There they sit in the full sun waiting for some fearless pioneer to pass by and take an interest in them. One almost has to wonder where are the deer or the bear who are constantly on the prowl for a free meal.

I can almost hear each berry say "thank you"..."thank you"..."thank you" each time I release one of its fruits and the tight little branch it is attached to snaps back back and forth before finally coming to rest as my hand reaches through to another single berry or better yet a cluster of ripe goodness.

I remember one time years ago Sandi and I walked past a house that had just been torn down in order to make way for a new highway. In the front of the house there had been a glorious dry-stacked stone wall that had been almost totally covered by years of neglect. Sandi was into stone walls and I was into helping her do her thing and we came back with a truck and began to load what was left of those stones for transport back to our house and another rock walkway, patio or assemblage. It was almost as if it was our duty to the person who had diligently found and placed those rocks years before, to gather them up and reuse them—to continue the tradition that had begun in some field twenty or thirty years before our little afternoon walk.

The idea of letting that anxious bulldozer plow them under as if they were somehow deserving of that fate was much too much to contemplate. We would save those flat worn stones and incorporate them into our living space and enjoy them for as long as we could before we to, go the way of all flesh.

It seems like only the right way to think—we have to preserve what is good and fitting of our heritage or it will be lost forever. Not that we cling to things out of some desperate motive to prolong our days or give meaning to our time here on earth—but that we enter into the stream of history that flows past us sometimes like a torrent and other times is like looking at a landscape that hasn't had rain in a while and all we see are the gaping cracks like veins running through our lives.

That such randomness can hold so much mystery amazes me. That a thirty minute piece of time can hold such interest and be filled with such poetry is a constant joy.

As the words and music inside our heads complete the soundtrack of our lives, let us rejoice in the peace that passes all understanding. That's good ride any day.

        

I was just about to get some ice cream out of the freezer when Sandi called me on my cellphone from the supermarket. Jessika, our oldest daughter, had been in a bad accident and had been taken to the trauma ward at the local hospital in Cary, North Carolina where she lives. It was our son, Joseph calling Sandi, and he didn't have any more information for us but was heading over to the hospital and would call us as soon as he found out anything. As I struggled with my feelings about how hurt my daughter might be, I do remember taking time to pray for her and wondering why this had happened.

There was a brief moment when I felt guilty about even enjoying the rest of what was becoming a beautiful evening in the mountains. I guess that is where the ice cream came in. Would God hear my prayer if I did something enjoyable when Jessika could be in bad shape because of the accident. Within the context of all that was going through my mind at the time, I had a sense that she was going to be alright and that we would be getting a good report from my son—yet, at the same time I fully felt the soberness of the moment  and the hard reality that her ultimate condition was not in my hands but God's.

Anyway, an hour or so later, I was talking with my daughter, who though banged up a bruised pretty severely, was being released to go home. This after CAT Scans and x-rays and so forth to eliminate any broken bones or internal injuries.

All this happened on June 20th. We had already scheduled a trip to visit the kids for the following weekend and so kept in touch with Jessika throughout the week to see if she was feeling up to us coming. By mid-week the trip was a go and we looked forward to having the whole family together on Saturday evening. Lydia, second to the youngest, was also planning on being in Cary that weekend as well.

All in all, we had a wonderful time with our family and consider ourselves fortunate that we still have Jessika with us. Several thoughts came to mind during this whole process which in turn led to me writing this.

First of all my son and daughter live within a mile or two of each other and Joseph took really good care of letting us know about Jessika and keeping us informed as well as running errands for her, etc. That type of stuff really makes a parent happy—you can't manufacture closeness or caring and our kids have really come a long way in that respect.

Also, our family just seems to flow pretty well with one another when we are together. I am sure that would be tested if it was twenty-four-seven for an extended period of time—but overall, for a long weekend, we enjoy one another's company. They tell us they get together every couple of weeks for a collective dinner or cookout as well.

If you had to write a script for life, this is the type of scene an author would no doubt include. What we do today builds memories for tomorrow. Then there come days when those self-same memories help us navigate through life's sometimes choppy waters.

Family is important and Sandi and I look forward to our trips to see the kids. We are fortunate they are only 3-4 hours away. There is always a trip to Barnes and Noble and a few Starbuck's stops along the way to break things up and make the trips there and back more interesting. Or at least that is the way the ride seems to be—and for that I am grateful.

        

When a project I have started takes a lot longer to complete than I had anticipated, I am reminded of an old movie I once saw about the artist Michelangelo painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. The Pope or some high ranking member of the church comes into the picture after the artist had been working on the fresco for far to long and exclaims: "Michelangelo, when will you make an end!" to which the artist replies, "When I am finished!" or something to that effect.

The ceiling did get painted and the rest, as they say, is history.

I felt much the same this year as the wet mountainous spring kept me from first getting my potatoes planted when I wanted to and then postponing the planting of my corn and beans until the first weekend of June. The good news is that everything is in the ground and growing by leaps and bounds due to the favorable weather we have experienced the past several weeks. A little rain followed by some 70 degree days does a lot for those small seeds: they germinate quickly and then grow really fast, actually catching up to those planted weeks earlier while the ground was still a bit cooler.

At least that has been my experience.

Gardening is something that I look forward to each year but as I get older, calendar-wise, the job does seem to get a little harder every year. This year, after hauling off last years stems and stocks (to wet to burn fully) I mowed down the weeds, tilled and raked then tilled and raked again. Then, after church on one Sunday, I tilled again, set up the row stakes and string, made my furrows, sowed the seed and covered them with peat and composted manure. This 30 row planting was a marathon session that took me almost 6 1/2 hours and several days to regain the energy I spent that afternoon.

Don't get me wrong—I am glad to still have the energy to expend however it ends up getting spent. It is just that it takes longer to get back to normal than it did last year. In a perfect world I could have broken the six hours into several sessions but with our weather's irregularity I just needed to get it done while the ground was still dry enough to work in.

It has been two or three weeks since the above took place and we are now hoping for a little moisture since the soil is drying out because of all these beautiful days we have had.

I had this thought while driving home from work tonight: the weather doesn't really care what we care or what we wish for—it is what it is. It can't really hear our thoughts and prayers and give us that perfect day because we are getting married outside or having people over for a cook out. If you get the perfect day, be thankful—but if you don't, remember it is just the other side of the same coin. Sometimes you get heads and sometimes it is tails all the way.

I guess that is why they say: make hay while the sun shines.

Rainy or not—that's the end of another not so long ride.

        

This time of year is one of my favorites and also rates as one of the most frustrating as well. This is due in large part to the fact that the transition from winter to spring and spring into summer is never a process (in the mountains) which can be easily understood or delineated with a simple wall calendar which notes that spring begins on March 21st. Most people in North Carolina will fall into planting zone 6 or 7 but because we are so much higher we find ourselves in zone 5—which in essence reaches from the middle of Michigan down to the tip of the southern Appalachian range. Logistically, there are parts of Washington state that rest in zone 7 even though they are located just below Canada.

So, we always get a few nice days in late February or early March that begin the gardening fever process. It is at this point I unwrap the tiller and see if it will start without a new plug—if it does I move onto the next project which is to rake up all the stalks, stems and other organic debris from fall into big piles that I will eventually get around to burning—no easy task in the windy climate that surrounds us.

I then try and find the seeds from last year that might still be good and look through the garden catalogs that have been laying around since after Christmas. Every year i tell myself that I will order all my seeds early and every year I fall behind or get caught unawares as the ordering deadlines come and go.

This year, most seed catalogs offered a $25 discount on every order of $50 or more. That gives me an idea of the incredible markup that gardening stuff must have attached to it. But the ploy works and I ordered my deer fencing from two separate catalogs in order to take advantage of the free $25 offers.

From one catalog I not only got the deer netting but also received 25 free strawberry plants when ordering another 25. The other cataloger offered me an additional 10 asparagus plants when I purchased 10 at regular price. Plus I got some other stuff but still was not quite ready to order seeds.

It turns out that I had a lot from last year and I hit the local stores that sell seeds and picked up what I thought i might need for early and late planting as well.

Actually, one of the most frustrating aspects of gardening is the fact that the "mom and pop" supply store where I used to go to buy my seeds and plants and fertilizer, went out of business several years ago leaving only Lowes and Walmart and Southern States where purchases can be made. I don't think I have ever recovered from the loss of that old fashioned, super-customer friendly, garden supply shop—and this is why.

To Walmart and the other "big box" stores, gardening stuff is a commodity that is inventoried early, based on stores that are not even close to our growing season. Because this stuff is a profit center in and of itself, the goal is to sell it as fast as possible and then use the space this inventory took up to sell something else. What I am saying is this: if you don't buy the seeds and plants weeks before they are ready  to plant, you run the risk of not being able to find any left by the time you are really ready and able to plant a garden.

Whereas the proprietor of the "local" feed and seed store always warned you about buying plants to early to survive in our mountain climate. Plus, when you ran out of lettuce seeds, etc. in the middle of the summer you could always count on them to have a supply left. Yes they did run out of stuff but it wasn't because they planned it that way. Also, they didn't sell packages with more seeds than you really needed—but only weighed them out according to what you told them "you" wanted.

When I asked them why they went out of business I was told that it was because they had gotten tired of making money only from March through July and then losing the rest of the year. And I guess I can understand their point of view even though I consider their passing a major event in my life and the lives of many others I know. They were a part of a culture that is dying off in America—customer-centric service and sales with a down home attitude and appreciation of each customer as they pass through the open doors of free enterprise.

Am I making more of this than it deserves—hardly I think. A book could be written about this trend and probably already has been. It is a loss that I live with every time I walk into a Lowe's or Walmart and see people frantically buying garden stuff way before it is time to plant because they know if they don't get it now it will be gone in a week or two. To these corporate centers I am just another statistic who may or may not show up on their profit and loss sheet at the end of the year. Once the inventory is gone, I am out of luck until the next year when the cycle starts all over again.

Anyway—I guess I have said enough. I have more than enough seeds to get me through this year and when the rains that have been pouring for the better part of two weeks stop, I will get into the garden and try to do in several days what I would have liked to do in several weeks—the potatoes and beans and zinnias still need to be planted.

Next year I plan on ordering my seeds from a catalog or two—I will see how that goes when the time comes.

In the meantime, enjoy your ride!

        

This is a story that to the best of my recollection begins about 44 years ago, just after I discovered a young folk singer named Bob Dylan. As many people no doubt found, getting hip to Dylan was just the beginning of what would become a journey into the roots of American music and beyond.

Once I found out that one of Dylan's influences was Woody Guthrie, I began to search in earnest for other musicians that were in the same genre and quickly ran into Cisco Houston, Leadbelly, Dave Van Ronk and of course, Pete Seeger. Most of these players are an acquired taste, but of them all (many more of course), Pete Seeger is by far the most accessible and one of my all time favorites.

I have collected many of his recorded works on CD and can clearly remember the times I would rock my youngest daughter to sleep listening to one of Seeger's  many children's concerts. He was a master of the sing-a-long and rarely recorded an album in the studio.

One of the most magical times in my life was seeing Pete in concert in Detroit, Michigan, sometime in the mid-seventies. The seats I had were way up in the balcony but the moment Pete walked on the stage singing "John Henry" the whole auditorium came alive and you could almost touch the electricity in the air. It was "dream-come-true" time for the next couple of hours as the master and his banjo weaved a web of Americana that I can still feel today.

Pete Seeger's 90th birthday is Sunday, May 3rd, and his party will be held at 5:00 p.m. at Madison Square Garden in New York City. Lots of popular musicians will be there and tickets are in the $90 to $250 range. It would be great to be there but I guess I will stay in Boone and mow the yard or work in the garden.

A couple of days ago, I was thinking about Pete and burned a couple of his early albums onto my Ipod. One of them is entitled "God Bless the Grass" and features a song named "The Power and the Glory". As I was listening to it this morning, I was struck by the fact that  even though I didn't always agree with his politics, Pete stayed true to his vision and that is as American as it gets.

In light of what is happening in the United States at this point in history (swine flu, toxic mortgages, bankrupt car companies, etc, etc.) I thought the text of this song is very apropos to where we are at. So, without further ado (and BIlly Shields too) here is "The Power and the Glory".

        

Several weeks ago I wrote about the silence of God and what hearing God might look like and ended the story with an open-ended question about what we are hearing from God today.

As you can no doubt tell, I believe that the creator of the universe is still in process of interacting with His creation—much like the walks He took with Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden. And that statement alone can probably cause as much controversy as the act of speaking in tongues ever has.

Lots of people have done many horrendous things during our history out of the belief that they have heard God speak something to them—in this group we have the schizophrenic and psychopath and other wise disturbed peoples of the world.

In all of this bad stuff people have done in the name of God, none of it was found in the new covenant we have with Him through the sacrifice of Jesus as described in the New Testament. Jesus didn't kill those who didn't like Him and thought He was a misfit—he blessed them and prayed for them and even had dinner with those people who were culturally despised for their jobs and/or positions, etc.—taxpayers, politicians, women caught in adultery and the like.

Scripture is very clear on the subject of wrath: Judgment is mine says the Lord—I will repay (Romans 12:19).

Personally, what I am hearing is a mixture of things—some is God and some is what I think He is saying.

The first thing I am hearing is about thinking new. We all remember that old saying which says the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. I believe the church as we have known it is in the same place. It is my impression that many church leaders believe that God has created one painting and only one painting and that we need to paint it over and over again every time we meet. This with the knowledge that no DNA chain is the same as any other and that each and every snowflake is unique as it falls from the sky.

We have all been there at one time or another. As a praise and worship leader for many years, I knew what it took to get to certain places and often repeated myself in order to facilitate this experience again and again. Not that repetition is bad, but using a technique to simulate the presence of the Holy Spirit is something else again.

Thinking new also means thinking in biblical terms—I am reminded of the verse that says: as a man thinks, so he is (Prov. 23:7). It is also interesting to note that while listening to Earl Nightingale the other day, he said the very same thing about becoming successful. The way he put it was that what a man spends his time thinking about, he becomes—clearly another way of saying the same thing as Proverbs 23. His point being that the process of us becoming anything in life requires us to put some brain power to it—to interact with the Creator in a creative way in order that we become the "unique" person we are (my words added to his).

Indeed, the canvas of our faces has changed along with the shape of our bodies over the years we have sojourned on this planet.

Or to sum up this brief line of thought—If you want to be rich, spend time thinking about what it takes to achieve that goal. If your desire is to be "Christ like" the same is true—although it is more through a relationship dynamic that this end is realized rather than a purely cerebral methodology.

I am also "hearing" (my internal/eternal sense) that this is the year to really make our gardens productive. Along with that, through a multitude of witnesses, having 30 days of food supplies available, in case the distribution chain gets temporarily disrupted. It is not a Y2K mentality but rather a be prepared service mentality that drives this thought home to me. We all know that if times get rough for a period that those without preparation will be knocking on our doors—and we need to be ready to invite them in—trusting the rest of what we haven't prepared for to God—come what may.

Of course, keeping out of debt and paying down your existing debt is something that we have been hearing for awhile now. The only way to do this is to think new. Sandi, my wife, wants laminate wood floors to replace our linoleum and carpet which has seen better days. Her idea was to sell books on Amazon dot com. At first I was sceptical (as I often am) about this idea, but with a few books from my shelves added to hers, we have almost earned the floor money in just under two months—and the basement got a little less crowded in the process.

This is not all that we are hearing but is a start at beginning to understand what is happening around us during this point in our collective and individual histories.

Feel free to add what you are picking up on and in the meantime, enjoy the ride.

        

I have been gardening in one fashion or another for almost 32 years—mostly since I moved to North Carolina in 1978 with the intent of leaving Michigan's rust belt and becoming a "mountain man". Gardens are a lot of work but they are one of the most rewarding endeavors that I can think of—all I have to do is think of fresh, vine-ripened tomatoes or eating corn that has just been picked and all that work is quickly forgotten.

Gardens are also a lot like our lives—we have some successful years and some that are not as profitable. Sometimes we plant to early and that late freeze gets the seed and we have to plant again. Some years you might have more spinach than you can eat and others—even though you have seemingly planted in the same way—you might only get a salad or two from a whole patch.

Anyway, it is spring time in the southern Appalachian's and the urge to get outside and start playing in the dirt is almost overwhelming—a few days of sunshine and hope are followed by several days of rain and cold weather—but we keep getting ready for the big planting push in small starts and stops.

As I plan this year's garden I am acutely aware of the fact that for the past two years, all the beans I have painstakingly planted have been eaten by a roving band of deer—deer that until recently have been content to eat what nature has provided for them rather than raid my yearly garden.

So, it wasn't really all that much of a shock to me to see five deer in the lot next to my garden when I came home from work the other day. Since I had my camera in the car, I stopped for a moment and before they ran away, took this picture to show my wife Sandi.




And it is not just the beans that are on my mind.

Three years ago after planting my sweet corn the weather got warm and there was very little rain. I would go out to the garden every couple of days in order to see if the corn was germinating. It seemed to be taking a long time but I figured that since it was dry, it might take a little longer to begin to see those little green shoots coming out of the soil. Well, one early morning, I noticed a bunch of crows in the back and you guessed it—they were eating my corn for breakfast. I told my buddy Carter about this situation and he told me that I needed to stake each row and pull a string across the row about 3 or 4 inches off the ground—that crows would not go under something in order to eat. So, the next year I tried that technique and we now have corn again.

This year I ordered about 100 feet of "deer netting"  that I plan to put around the beans, the corn and maybe the peas as well. It is a lot of work but in these economic times, not having canned beans or fresh corn isn't an option—so whatever I have to do I will.

While driving to work this morning I had these thoughts I have just written along with a memory of the first garden Sandi and I did upon finding an old home place to begin our lives in these now familiar mountains.

The house we lived in and in process of re-claiming, had not been occupied for many years. There was an overgrown garden space directly behind the house which we had plowed by one of the older locals we had met. If you have ever seen a freshly plowed field it looks something like rows of big overturned sod patches in between deep furrows of nothing but dirt. From a distance it appears as big welts of soil with the grass turned under and somewhat hidden from sight.

What we didn't know at the time was that this process was supposed to be followed by discing—a process by which the newly ploughed earth is broken up and made somewhat plantable. Whether or not our farmer friend forgot this process or was playing a joke on us "newbies" I will never know. What I do know is that Sandi and I began to hand separate the dirt from the grass and when we had some earth smoothed out, planted some seeds and waited for our "harvest".

What we failed to understand was that these little seeds needed nutrients to grow just like our bodies do. It is hilarious to look back on those 3 inch corn plants that failed to get any bigger no matter how much we watered them and checked up on them. It wasn't until the following year that we learned about discing, tilling and fertilizer and began to have harvests that we could eat and put away for the winter. Gardening, like life, is a learning process—that's the ride I am on and am looking forward to what this year brings.

How about you?

        

In the absence of any sound or noise, God is not "silent" as some would define it.

His creative voice still resonates through time and permeates all that He has ever imagined.

Some would say that silence is a lack of interaction or connection. Some would say that they haven't "heard" God speak to them in a long time—if ever. Yet scripture tells us that, "...all creation groans and travails waiting for the manifestation of the sons of God." and "... For the invisible things of him from the creation of the world are clearly seen."

What do these groanings and travailings sound like? Not like the mountain brook that sends its soft rumbling sound constantly to all who come near—more like the howling wind of a distant tropical storm.

What do these invisible things look like? A new-born baby bursting forth from its mother's womb! A late evening, full-moon, summertime-walk?

During lunch with a friend the other day, our conversation turned to family type stuff and some of the frustrations that come with parenthood. In the course of this more personal interchange, I asked my friend what God was speaking to him about some of the scenarios he was sharing with me. His comment was quick and seemingly practiced: God created the earth and then left us to fend for ourselves.

This reply from a person I know has felt the hand of God and by faith has heard His voice—heard his voice in terms of feeling to do this or that instead of something else.

At that point I didn't know what to say and since we were done eating, we left the restaurant and headed back to our respective jobs. Just before my friend dropped me off at my work place, I had this thought which I quickly shared: You may not think that God is speaking to you (that He is silent) but instead of hearing an audible voice on your own as in times past—perhaps God is speaking to you through your friends.

Therefore my conclusion: God is not silent as some would define silence.

In a book of poetry I just finished entitled "God's Silence" by Franz Wright, he says in one poem that, "...I have heard God's silence like the sun." I have really no idea of what he is trying to get me to see in this verse other than the fact that the sun is everywhere and without it we would not be alive. And oh yeah, the sun doesn't really have a vocabulary other than to say, "...don't stare directly into me and if you are going to be out in me for a long time, wear some SPF 50 so bad things don't happen to your skin."

So, in other words, I would have to believe that even a deaf person can "hear" God. That hearing is not about audibility but a knowing that transcends our very senses. Maybe the term would be sinisthesia or a blending our senses. I can say when I have seen something miraculous that I have heard God speak.

What comes to mind as I write these words is a picture of my wife and I having dinner in some fancy restaurant. Maybe we are celebrating our anniversary or a bonus check—nevertheless, the picture is the same. As we leisurely talk about our hopes and dreams over a glass of wine and a tasty meal, I have often had the feeling that what we are experiencing is somewhat unreal—a scene from a movie caught in time. That there are literally thousands of people all over the world enjoying the company of their mate and a good dinner along with us is somewhat overwhelming. That the supply system that brings the steak or shrimp to our table works as well as it does is almost deafening to me—I am aware of all the people that did their job in order to facilitate my good time with my wife. The bible even tells me that the enjoyment of the fruits of one's own labor is a gift from God. And I take it as such and wish that that moment could be enjoyed forever—of course the moment passes and we are right back to paying bills online and wondering why our boss doesn't understand us.

Yet, in all of this, I see the hand of God and feel His voice—it is a silence that almost permeates every fiber of my being—I am so full at that very moment that I could die and go to heaven and not even argue about the timing.

Does the voice of God transcend our senses? I would have to say YES!

I guess then the question remains—what are we hearing and are we paying attention.

And that is a "ride" that will take us down another path for another time.

NOTE: (added 4/8/09) Part two to this thought process is here.

        

In the future
sometime between now and then
I will wonder—maybe—whatever happened to the time
I spent as a couch potato—watching TV shows I had taped
during the previous week.

Will I wonder if maybe I could have used the time differently—perhaps come up with a cure for cancer or the common cold?

Will I wonder what could have happened had I applied myself differently—put the time I didn't do much of anything into a time capsule—so that I could dig it up when I need it more—like when my time runs out or there is not much of it left.

You know, there never seems to be enough time to do everything I thought I wanted to do. In the end it won't be any different than it is right now—I will wish that I had done something different with my time—I don't know what for sure, but something other than what I did.

Cause it always seems I don't get done what I later wish that I would have—whatever it was that I didn't do.

It's like an epidemic—it's all over me—wondering where  the time went even before it slowly slips away—washes under the bed—out the door—down the drain.

Time is like lost love—there can really never be enough of it—so we have to settle with what we get.

What we can imagine about time—what we could do if we had just a little more of it—is always more exciting than what we actually do with what time we get. There is always this tension between our dreams and what we do with our lives in the real world—as if one thought drives the other or vice-versa—only I don't know which one is in the lead today.

The sum of our lives will always be more than what we thought—when we had that thought—and less than what it could have been, had we done everything we ever imagined.

There will always be an imbalance in the teeter-totter of our lives—one side up while the other side hits the ground only to be pushed up until an imbalance occurs again and tries to correct itself. We push until our legs are tired and then we take a short breath and run to the swing set or the slide.

It's a day in the park—this thought life of mine—once lived and now remembered—take a picture and tape it into a scrapbook—someone will see it one day and smile—remembering their own days on the playground.

        

I have gone a long time (for me) thinking that I haven't had anything to say or write about—thinking that I am not a poet or an artist or that everything worth saying has already been said—and if I haven't heard it or read it I haven't looked in the right book yet.

Yet creativity or being creative is not about you finding me hidden somewhere on some shelf in some Barne's And Nobles in some off street strip-mall. It is about enjoying the process of thought or life itself—it is about being satisfied that my life has been worth something—not lost between the weeks and months and years of occupying this earthly space—this mortal coil.

Creativity is really about taking the time to wonder—taking the time to roll around in the tall spring grass of your mind. It is about arranging the moments of each day to include thoughtful wondering/wanderings of lets examine this or that for just a minute or two before it too is lost to memory. Lets recall our life before our recollection of it dims like print upon a yellowed newspaper page.

Lets not be pressured into escape thinking—that we will catch up on everything when there is a little less stress and a lot more time—because that time is like water poured onto a thirsty garden plot—it all but disappears within a few short moments and we are left staring at the face of some dried up soil. You can almost hear it sigh with partial relief when the last drop of water is sucked into God knows where.

Who will water the ground of my soul?