This is why

Sometimes, I find myself

not wanting to show up and speak out.

Preferring to live my life the best I can 

without making anyone mad.

Waiting for things to get better

without me. 

Really, what difference could I

possibly make?

But at the same time, wanting so badly 

to be part of the solution

(without even knowing how to define the problems).

And definitely without getting my hands dirty.

And yet I find myself once again

on the side of a busy road

trying to respond to what is happening

in my country and the world

in a way that encourages love.

(It seems like there are so many better ways -

I would much rather bake cookies.)

---

There is no shade today.

The sun beats down on our small gathering, 

along with the same question, unrelenting -

what difference could this possibly make?

Why am I here? And where's everyone else?

And then, across the road, I see her.

A young girl walking into the restaurant 

with her family. She sees us. 

An excited smile immediately lights up her face.

She gestures big, with two thumbs up.

Then disappears inside.

She might not be old enough to fully understand

but she's likely old enough to eventually remember.

And so, I am reminded 

by a rather small person in a very big way - 

this is why I am here.

Woodsmoke

Long-handled loppers,

a grub hoe, a rake,

and a pocket full of strike anywhere matches.

Moving slowly up and down

the steep forested slope below our home,

losing track of the tools in the dense fern and Oregon grape.

Smoke rises from the brush pile burning below.

The song of the winter wren curls upward with it,

reminding me to listen to the two small streams joining together, 

in a meandering hurry.

Picking up branches and deadfall,

accumulated over the previous winter.

That's the objective.

The crunch in last year's leaves adds urgency to this year's task - 

how could it be so dry already?

And where are the slugs?

How could there possibly be so much change

in one person's lifetime?

I glance at the house above me,

cobbled together over a span of many years.

Made of the Doug fir and the western red cedar

surrounding it.

Like discovering a nest in a rather precarious position,

you ask, "why did this silly bird build its home in this spot?"

Hmmm. Good question.

Flat ground is rare on this five-acre parcel.

I pause, taking a drink of water.

This is home, but not just for me.

Pulling my dirty gloves back on,

I watch a robin flip over a vine maple leaf.

Then I keep working, trying to do my small part.

Perhaps the robin is too.

I drop another armful of branches on the fire.

That's where we need to begin, right?

Taking care of our little part?

Sometimes we have to narrow our focus

to keep hope in our grasp.

I turn and head back up the hill,

carrying my thoughts and the smell of woodsmoke with me,

done for the day.