The Patchwork

The caulking between the old logs that was placed there so many years ago, has slowly been eroded by the rain, wind, and the freezing and thawing as the days and seasons change. The once host to hand tied sticks of tobacco hoisted first to the top tier and then filled in below was the “oven” in which some of the farm’s bright leaf tobacco was thoughtfully cured at harvest. Two o’clock in the morning is no time to repair the worn old structure, but an obsessive mind that hosts this thing called Parkinson’s insists upon addressing the repair step by step until sleep seems a distant passer-by. The greater the conscious “fight” to return to slumber, the wider awake this codger becomes until an exit from the bed seems the only relief from the obsession. Far from having slumber satiated, the recliner, the lamp and a book replace the conscious discomfort of the bed. Hours pass with just a hint of slumber tapping gently as the head hosting the dopamine depletion nods gently to startled awakening. As anxiety about the day ahead begins to call, frustration intentionally is given away with surrender to “here and now.” Thoughts of gratitude for the moment’s breath and the heartbeat that signifies the life that despite how “I desire” has so graciously been given. The residue of each thankful expression serves to complete the patchwork of the comforting quilt that is the woven masterpiece now embracing. Whatever the day unfolds, with a grip of gratitude and a tank of thankfulness, the day’s revelation can be warmly embraced!