from dust to dust

Most of my growing up years was spent in rural Missouri.  In a house filled with alcoholism and abuse it was the land that saved me, along with a tiny Presbyterian Church filled with God and  Church Ladies who loved me in spite of myself.  I have happy memories of that sanctuary, the buzz of the fans and the drone of the preacher's voice on a hot summer Sunday morning.  But the happiest memories I have are of wading through fields to explore abandoned barns, crawling under barbed wire fences attempting to inspect cows up-close, waiting for the Book Mobile to arrive, then crawling up into a tree to read all day.  

I couldn't wait to beat feet out of that small town—to get as far away as possible from my family's pain.  What is it about the aging process that pushes some of us to finally realize that our lives really are only dust?  Are our cells imprinted with a clock that tells us when it's time to return to the dust from which we came?   I have spent dozens of years yearning for a parcel of dust that was as sweet, fertile and life-giving as the dust of my childhood; a place that will mark the end of my time here on earth.  I think I've found it!  

My grandmother and my mother taught me everything I know about forcing life from dirt—creating beautiful things from nothing. I'm grateful for that.  I'm grateful too, for my husband, who gifted me with this land and who supports me in perhaps my last big adventure as I attempt to create something beautiful and meaningful on it.