Gleaning Time

Unfortunately, the temperature stayed warm enough to prevent any Christmas snow. So, instead of a soft blanket of white, the landscape was gray and brown and corn-row rough. But the fields I passed were not barren. They were just empty. Before harvesting the crops had hidden the immensity of the land and blocked the view of houses and buildings that were now evident.

As I drove, the morning mist masked the blemishes of aging farms. Rusty silo roofs were not as visible. Neither were the missing boards and broken panes of unkempt barns. Old farm equipment remained buried in the belly of the monstrous weeds of summer that had swallowed them.

The pale, yellow remnants of harvest rose a half foot above the soil. Some stalks stood straight, but others no longer pointed to the sky as they had done when they reached for the warmth of the summer sun. The faint, straw-colored stems stretched out in lines. Months from now amber waves of wheat might appear where the corn had stood, but for now the only signs of life were scavengers. Crows gleaned the land that other animals had pilfered for weeks.

Fields that had once been rich offered little to the black birds that pillaged the soil and waited for a chance to rob each other if any food were found. Occasionally one took flight as if sailing a few feet above the ground might reveal full ears of corn. What would drive any of us to be that persistent or hungry?

Would a foot of snow have cancelled their gathering? I don’t know enough about them to speculate. My knowledge of ornithology peaked in elementary school. We were the Azalia Cardinals. If ball-game chants be true, we were the “mighty, mighty Cardinals.” Maybe redbirds are more welcome at feeders and do not need to fight for food in a winter wasteland.

The first graders at Azalia were tagged with the number of wildlife names in reading class. I do not recall what species Mrs. Jones chose to represent the good readers or to denote those in need of help. It could have been sparrows or robins or foxes. What I am certain of is that some of us should have been squirrels. We fidgeted in our seats far too much to concentrate on vowels and consonants and silent letters.

If Mrs. Jones asked me to pick my own group today, I would excuse myself from a list of foxes and squirrels. And, I don’t believe I’d qualify as a robin or sparrow either. These days I feel more akin to the old crows that extracted kernels from a greedy, muddy land. You might too.

Like them, you and I search continuously when emptiness is upon us, but our digging is in mounds and fields of memories. In an effort to reclaim what was lost and to find sustenance for our souls, we sort through experiences again and again. Sometimes we just stumble through the uneven fields of yesteryear and find one accidentally.

What we discover can affect our attitudes and tomorrows. The desire to look for value in our lives and the hope that comes from finding something special nudge us gently through the day and into the next season.

* Adapted from “Gleaning Time,” Nudge Me Gently