by Catherine Finger
“Even birds and animals have much they could teach you.” Job 12:7 (GNT)
The lowing of mourning doves serenades me as I drink strong coffee—Bible, journal and Christie by my side. We start each day just after five a.m., eager to share the golden hour in the splendor of nature. These June mornings I’ve been snipping kale, swiss chard and basil leaves from my garden, adding pineapple chunks to a blender and whipping up a breakfast smoothie.
Last night’s strawberry moon beckoned me to follow her and I took the first of many summer’s Night Walks under a velvet sky. Songs of the night soothed me, kneading away the worries of the day with each moonlit step. Tree frogs belted out their love songs, more confident in their adolescent love lives than most of us at any age.
I’m grateful for the deep pink peonies adorning my writing table—a gift from a dear friend’s garden. Post COVID farmers markets are beginning to bloom in our streets again. This morning I strolled through a smattering of vendors with friends, thumping and snapping up fresh produce. Our talk turned to loved ones, gardens and neighborhood bonfires. As I dropped my friend off at her home, she surprised me with a gift of gorgeous fresh-cut peonies. My heart leapt within me for I am in love—with summer.
The weekend comes and I hustle through my chores like a twelve-year-old girl, impatiently awaiting my release from the mundane—that I might fly to the barn and throw my arms around my beloved. Clara, my quarter horse mare, waits petulantly for my return. She’ll nicker her greeting and step aside, offering me space to fling open her stall door and groom and scratch her properly. We’ll find our happy place, each in the other, as I brush, and she will stretch out her glorious neck in appreciation.
We’ve had a tough season, all of us. As I look out the window at the medley of greens peaking in-between the flowers on my desk, I remind myself that seasons change. Nothing lasts forever. Not these flowers, not this verdant landscape, not the fullness of summer.
But that’s okay—because autumn’s coming. And I love autumn’s rich color schemes, the smell of the harvested earth, the long-awaited warming of our spring fed lake. And swimming under the harvest moon.
Catherine Finger loves to dream, write, and tell stories. Retired from a wonderful career in public education, she celebrates opportunities to contribute to the wellbeing of others as a coach, writer, and friend. She lives in the Midwest with a warm and wonderful combination of family and friends. To learn more, visit catherinefinger.com