Sunshine and blue sky
this morning. Temperature is in the mid-50s. The aroma of coffee brewing for my wife as she sleeps yet a few minutes more. I'm showered, facing the prospect of some tough days at work. A young dove at the end of the driveway, in shadow. The sound of doves calling, the sound of summer's birds, the bright sun burning dew off the blades of grass. Ah, blue sky and song.
A child walks along Church Street this morning, alone. Is he lonely? What does he know of life, of love; what does he know of his dreams? Does he know where he is, what he's got? Does he know what it all means?
Certainly I don't know what it all means, but I know enough to have a pang in my heart. Yesterday as I read the weekly papers I receive from twelve middle western communities, I saw the enormity of my undertaking - to understand what it means to be middlewestern. We are a people wide and deep and varied. Yes, there are commonalities. What are the commonalities? I want to find the stories that tell us who we are.
The green corn shines with the sun on it. In the coolness of the new day, the new week, I think "I could be on vacation, or retired...." This morning could be an open invitation, yet I go to work. Duty. Duty. Duty. It is the middlewestern virtue; it is the middlewestern sin.