Commute

The air is cool as I step out of the house, but the moisture in the air promises great heat later in the day. Already the clouds are building.  I toss my bags into the back of the car, and hop in. Another commute. It's as much a part of my day as brushing my teeth, and the city slides by routinely. I merge onto the highway and hit cruise.

It's quiet. No radio. To much to think about. Too much to pray about. Too much to see. The next hour is mine. My mind flows into it and fills it up.

My wheels hum over the pavement. The goldenrod hangs heavy, covered in dew, each drop catching and reflecting the slanting sunlight. Early-morning mist hangs over the fields and trees, silhouetting them in diffuse light. Sure signs of fall, these heavy mists and drooping goldenrod heads. A sure sign that the seasons are turning, and today is the first day of school.

My life has followed this rhythm for as long as I can remember. September to September. Fall to fall. How many times did I not start school, dressed up in my new fall sweater, only wake up to a day just like this one -- full of mists and goldenrod and thick humidity that blooms into full-out summer heat later in the day. I smile. Oh, there is something so new about the first day of school.

I pray for my nieces and nephews. Two of them are, for the first time, not going back to school. They're that old. I'm that old. I pray for them, too. It must be such an odd feeling, watching the world go back to school, and not being a part of it. Two of them are still too young for school. All the rest, like me, packed a lunch, grabbed a book bag, and started for new classes. New beginnings. So I pray for each by name on this mist-filled, golden-bright, fall-cool, summer-humid morning as the highway hums beneath my wheels.

Rows of corn march in soldier precision up the hill of a farmer's field. One plant follows another in lockstep up the hill, tassels waving like hat-feathers. The bean fields aren't like that. Their plants grow in tangled masses, obliterating the neat rows in which they were planted. How like the events of my day. How I wish they would unfold like rows of corn, neat and tidy, one following the other in precision, but so often they tumble about in a tangle like bean fields. What will today be like: corn fields or bean fields? But I am not there yet, and here, now, in the peace of my car, as the fields slide by, none of that matters. It will be what it will be, and God is Lord of it all. Breathe in, breathe out.

And so the miles roll, and my mind soars and leaps and wanders, and I pray and watch and wonder, until I hit the outskirts of town, and I cancel the cruise and dodge the construction, and wend my way to the school.

Ok, God, it's yours. Make it so.

**********

The promised heat of the morning has been fulfilled. It hits me like a wall as I open the car and toss in the books. The road shimmers as I pull back onto the highway, windows down, hair whipping in the hot wind that blows in from highway speed.

The mists have lifted, hanging now low in the sky in a thick haze made brown with the dust of the construction along the highway. But that clears as I leave the city and head back through farmers' fields, and the sky burns blue and bright, filled with massive clouds that grow higher as I watch. Their bottoms are sullen and grey, their tops billowy and bright. It is a big view, this open sky and farmers' fields, and my soul stretches to meet it.

A good day, altogether. A bit corn field, a bit bean field, but good.

A huge flock of starlings swoops over the highway. I want to bend low over the steering wheel to watch them in their dance, but I dare not. Too much can happen too quickly at highway speed. How is it that such a number of starlings can flit and dance together across the sky, turning in pinwheeling perfection, each knowing its spot, without ever colliding, but we drivers below can't manage that? Perhaps because they are focused on the dance, and not on the drivers below. Their movement is magic, visual harmony playing across the sky.

The rich sweetness of cut hay sweeps through the car. I breathe deep, and find the field of neat swaths, drying to golden goodness in the hot sun. An advantage, I suppose, of not having air conditioning, smelling that good, sweet hay.

I notice that the bean fields are yellowing, a pale mirror of the heavy richness of the goldenrod. Fall is such a yellow season, as if every part of the earth is gathering up extra sunshine to store it for the grey days ahead. All is yellow and golden and rich, and while winter is coming, I am not there yet, and here, in the peace of my car, as the golden goodness slides by, none of that matters. The richness of today is here to enjoy.

The clouds are still growing. I am in the shadow, but I can still see the edges, impossibly bright, rim-lit with the sunlight behind. The silver lining. Except it's not so much silver, as blinding incandescence, too much to take in, too much to look at. What does that say, I wonder, for our maxim? "Every cloud has a silver lining," as if there is some glimmer of goodness even in the hard times. But this is not a glimmer. It is a dazzling display of brilliance, a show-off shine of glory that cannot be taken in with naked eye. It is a glory that cannot be hidden by the dark cloud, a glory that breaks the cloud and reaches through with long fingers to touch the world below. And I wonder, I wonder if perhaps we content ourselves with silver linings and fail to see the majesty of the glory of the Sun.

By the time I pull off the highway, I am back in the sunshine, and the clouds glow pink behind me. I can see more clouds growing ahead. I am surrounded by storm, but as I stop at the top of the ramp, there is silence. No hum of wheels, no whine of wind, no scream of traffic. Just peace and sunshine, and the song of crickets fills the peace. The worries of the day break free and float away. It is what it is, and God is Lord of it all.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Home.