The sky was beautiful this morning. Not only did I see it and appreciate its salmon streaks – no small feat in the midst of my rather robotic and swift morning ritual – but I shared it with Bella, who was so taken with the colors that she dashed outside and snapped it on her phone. In the later afternoon, as the sky did another dance, this one worthy of O’Keeffe in its patterns and light, she captured it again.
The are many times when I doubt where I live. I yearn for the west coast to the point of pain – too often. It doesn’t help that this time of year Iowa can feel desolate – barren trees, colorless sky, and empty gardens. Errant trash tucked into the crevices of ditches and the undersides of shrubs adds insult to injury. It is home, though. Home. A word I don’t take lightly.
We can go anywhere – what a delicious truth. The person in me who chose American Studies as a field (thank you Sherman Paul), cherishes an umbilical connection to a single place, the place of my children’s birth, of my father’s grave, of houses where I once kissed and made love, of classrooms where I learned – all of this a home that roots me here repeatedly and requires that I see the beauty, no matter how thin, how quiet.
To notice the sky – a gift of patience, love, vision. To have a daughter who sees it, too – that is beauty abundant.