Once upon a time, far at the end of a long, long, long runway, tucked in the middle of a dusty, dirty bean field just north of the mighty Missouri, and deep in the heartland of a great and ancient landmass, there was a little patch of clover.
It wasn’t particularly unusual, as clover patches go, but according to the word on the wind, there was something special about it.
It wasn’t even very big – just a few feet across. But if a passerby slowed down long enough to pay attention, one might see an entire world of activity busily taking place at ankle level. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much busy-ness in such a small space. Perhaps it was the clover that drew the masses. I’m not sure what it was, but it certainly had the attention of all the local wee ones.
Almost every stalk of grass or clover or twig or treacle had something crawling on it, up it, down it, over it. There were butterflies and beetles, ants and spiders, chiggers and chewers, moths and mosquitoes, grandmothers, aunts and uncles galore.
Rumor had it these little ones were wise. Very, very wise indeed, in the ways of wee ones’ wisdom. There was no arguing here, no pushing, no shoving, no claims of “That’s MY flower!” If one crown was full, you merely bopped to the next one and kept right on going.
No mind was paid to the weighty ways of the world beyond. Each had its own work to do, its own purposes to accomplish, and each did his or her best, in its own small, contented way, just as it was meant to be.
The little ones gave no heed to the giant creature among them, slow and obviously dim-witted in its lack of appreciation for all things clover. Occasionally one would land and take a nibble – perhaps it’s meant for eating? Hmm. No. Oh well.
And so the days would pass, one and then another and then another – long, hot eons of time as generations came and went, came and went, came and went. All was quiet, all was calm, all was well. Life was full. Life was abundant. And Life would always find a way.
And so, if you should ever happen to find yourself at the end of a long, long, long runway, tucked in the middle of a dusty, dirty bean field, just north of the mighty Missouri, deep in the heartland of a great and ancient landmass, stop for a minute. Slow down, and look at your feet, so deeply rooted there among the tufts and twists.
Do you see it?
Yes – it’s still there – to this day! That very same little patch of clover. And if you should happen to think to say hello from Great Grandfather Singing Bug (he of the cicada cousins) from seventeen years ago, those present will look up and nod and smile in their own way. They know their roots. And they have not forgotten.
Someday, maybe, just maybe, I’d like to think that all of us two-leggeds may again be this wise. May we remember what we never really forgot – we just tucked it away for safe keeping. And if we’re *really lucky, may we remember it while sitting in the middle of a little clover patch, at the far end of a long, long runway. The one that led us home.
(C) 2016 Mary Batson, FrontPorchRambles.com
All rights reserved – especially the one to stop and smell the clover.