It’s the dead of winter and I’m still raking leaves and collecting branches that the winds have broken and scattered; all of which will eventually be ground into mulch and reused and reclaimed to nourish the soil. I even pick up a few feathers from fallen birds; taking off my gloves to feel the smoothness of the feathers, and to admire the colors and designs in each one.
I see life reflected in nature. Fallen and broken people, crushed and snuffed out by wars. We may never know each one’s vibrant colors, or how they have nourished the soils where they were planted and grew.
I bow my head. A teardrop falls on a patch of snow.
The messy yard reminds me of work to be completed.
Ignore the backache, the strain on the knees, the cramped hands, and the allergies.
Keep going.
Don’t give up.
Don’t get discouraged.
Mercy, like raindrops, washes away the ice and frozen snow. Hints of green peek through. Hope?
I think back to the holiday that just passed and reflect on the Christmas message of, ‘Peace on earth and good will toward men.’ A weight lifts off of my heart. Encouragement strengthens me. I straighten my back and lean into my work. My job’s not done. I have to keep on working and do my part to make my world better than I found it.
Alone in my backyard, I sing a song from my youth.
“Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me.”
Veronica Jorge
See you next time on February 22nd!
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It’s the dead of winter and I’m still raking leaves and collecting branches that the winds have broken and scattered; all of which will eventually be ground into mulch and reused and reclaimed to nourish the soil. I even pick up a few feathers from fallen birds; taking off my gloves to feel the smoothness of the feathers, and to admire the colors and designs in each one.
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Featured Author Veronica Jorge credits her love of history to the potpourri of cultures that make up her own life and to her upbringing in diverse Brooklyn, New York.
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Featured Author Veronica Jorge credits her love of history to the potpourri of cultures that make up her own life and to her upbringing in diverse Brooklyn, New York.
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The last of the leaves have fallen from the trees and covered the ground in colors of orange, yellow, red and green.
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I didn’t lose my voice. I just can’t find the heart of my story or the right words to express it.
Nothing Found
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