We do such disservice to grass by mowing it!
A few days ago, I was looking through a folder of photo files from a walk-about at Camp Hardtner in early February. Don’t remember what I was looking for.
As happens with some regularity, I found images I had completely forgotten about. That walk-about was primarily to identifying plant species for my ongoing Camp Hardtner Assessment Project. (More on that another time.) But I was distracted by a tall clump of wild grass.
Wild grass that is allowed to grow presents a different beauty for every season. Come February, it has traded its green for shades of reddish gold. It’s blades drape eloquently. Its tufted fruit pauses on the brink of flying away.
Virtually every one of my favorite poets has written about grass: Walt Whitman, Emily Dickinson, Carl Sandburg. But Rumi’s voice is the one that heals best today:
Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing
and rightdoing there is a field.
I’ll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass
the world is too full to talk about.
Peace, y’all. #PeaceintheTimeofPandemic #PTOP