A Country Summer Morning
Like Stevie Wonder’s album, Songs in the Key of Life, beauty can be found all around if you make the effort to look for it.
Ah. What a perfect morning. I traded the city for the country. Nothing beats summer back home on the farm.
There are no sounds of rush hour traffic outside my bedroom window; no creaking of neighbors starting their routines; no people walking and talking on the sidewalk, no construction; no blaring sirens; no garbage trucks in the alleyway. None of that. It’s not silent; it’s subtle sounds. I lean back in a lawn chair in my backyard, sip from my mug of coffee, and dig into my new library book. But I can’t focus.
I’m not on vacation. I don’t recall an actual vacation more recent than a year ago. Instead, I take one or two-day doses of the family farm to cure my urban angst. Summer is the best time to visit rural Wisconsin. Patches of trees line the edge of the yard. A vast field of green soybeans, juvenile in height, insulate us from neighbors and roads. No one pries into our business—and that’s just how us country folk like it.
I appreciate the moment. I take a deep breath. You can smell the dirt. Fresh air is foreign in Chicago. The weather is perfect: high 70s, partly cloudy, and not humid. The sky is happy blue. The grass is vegan-arousing green. The flowers are a hopeful pink. I listen to my environment.
High-pitched chirping emerges from the trees to my left. Then from the trees to my right. It was as if the birds sung to each other—200 feet across—to praise this glorious day. Their succession is in-sync. How are they so on point? I hadn’t ever researched “bird singing” before.
I stare ahead at the two oak trees. My dad and I planted them over twenty years ago. They’ve grown to impressive juvenile heights – almost ready to support a hammock in between. Each has so much life ahead of them; they’ll certainly outlive me. I just hope the people a hundred years from now will appreciate them as much as I do.
Suddenly, a buzzing dragonfly hovers five feet in front of my face. No—it’s a hummingbird! I’ve only seen a hummingbird twice on the farm. It stares directly at me with its beak cocked. I brace for an attack. But it don’t. It just watches me like it has something to tell me. Seven seconds later it flies away like its business is done.
I hear the echo of a semi-truck a half mile away. It’s the one reminder that I’m not on the same schedule as others. Few people have an open Tuesday morning. I’m grateful to have the opportunity to have my weekdays look however I want.
I feel something stuck between my teeth. Oatmeal from breakfast. It drives me batty, and I can’t enjoy the moment a second longer without flossing. I can’t even focus on not focusing.
What’s been a similar moment for you?