If you’ve listened to selected shorts on PRI for awhile (http://www.wnyc.org/shows/shorts/), you’ve heard Roger Kellaway’s, “Come to the Meadow.” The music is lyrical, whimsical and evocative. I can see wildflowers and feel the wind in his composition. The music, for me, paints a spring song in the meadow, evergreen and blooming. Yet, when I found myself in The Meadows on a cold November morning, I was captivated by the patterns, shapes and lines of summer grasses, now glowing golden in the glorious morning light. Come to the meadow with me, on a glorious autumn morning. Bring Roger Kellaway, if you can. There are more seasons in the meadow than you might expect.
7:45 am, 28 degrees, Thanksgiving morning, 5K run. I was the designated photographer as three of my children dragged me out of bed to take pictures of them running. Annual tradition. Most all of my family converged on our home for Thanksgiving. With so many people staying in our home, there hasn’t been much sleeping going on. I stayed up way too late. I was tired. I was cold. Then, the sun came up. The light hit the mountain tops and I thought about all the places I have been in the world this year, how many frequent flyer miles I have accrued, how many Marriott points I have, and, I was glad. Glad to be home. Home where the cold November mornings chill my breath. Home where the sun shines more often than not and the summer sun shines late and long. Home where my pillow fits my head and my bed has an indentation just my size. Home where my children come for Sunday dinners. Home where the sun rises over the Wasatch mountains to the east and Lone Peak Mountain lies north. Home, where I’m never lost and always loved. For these things and more I give thanks.