Boundaries intrigue me. In Kentucky, stone fences built by settlers that designated the edges of land ownership still line the serpentine roads. The stacked limestone walls are climbable. You can tunnel under them or walk through the gates. But they continue to keep out predators and confine the livestock. And a family and its neighbors know what they possessed.
Personal limits, placed to keep ourselves confined or others away from our presence challenge me. Why, I ask. Is it fear? Or, is it a sign of ownership? Perhaps love of the familiar and the peace it brings is why I and others restrict access to our hearts.
Personally, I like challenges. Peering down a steep slope with two skinny boards attached to my boots made me smile in the past. A race driving course equipped me with insight and assurance when I drove on icy Michigan roads. Living as a minority in Asia or Africa, packing a bag to last for a year didn’t faze me. However, discovering I shut emotional doors that God wants to pry open stops me flat.
As I analyze my feelings and responses, they are translated into prose. WRITE WHAT YOU KNOW is written in capital letters in my mind. Consequently, I create characters with well entrenched boundaries that are challenged by circumstances as well as by others. In the D.B. Burns mystery series, heroine Delilah Burns Morgan faces rebuilding her life after her husband dies, then juggling the attentions of the man her husband wished her to consider marrying. In my novella, Happy Christmas, Miss Lawrence, circumstances alter Alexandra Lawrence’s journey home. Can she trust strangers to protect her in a foreign country and still maintain her peace?
Boundaries, I have a few. When I write down my emotional fences, I see them more clearly. Occasionally Jesus limited access to his heart by withdrawing to spend time with His Father. It seems the better way.
Luke 5:16, Luke 22:41, Matthew 26:39, 42.
“To everything there is a season, a time to every purpose under heaven…A time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted.” Ecclesiastes 3:1-2 “There is no new thing under the sun,” says the preacher. Ecclesiastes 1:9
Like Octopus tentacles heading in every direction, the sloughs and bayous of the Sacramento Delta bisect the land. An otherworldly place of ancient lore and pioneer spirit where water snakes through rich farm soil. We take the sinuous curves of the road in search of Snug Harbor.
There are stories here to be excavated like the miners churned over the earth in the mountains. But I do not have time to dig into the minds of my companions. We are here on a retreat of medical and pharmacy students. Tailings of worn out boats to the dilapidated barns reveal the land has been well used. A place of contrasts, where at one bend of the road the bottom soil seems dry and desiccated then the tarmac curves and wineries appear with rose bushes decorating the ends of grape rows like a flower on a Derby hat. The pears have been harvested but a few hang like Christmas ornaments from the stretching branches.
The sweetness of ripe grapes and pears perfumes the air with the delicate touch of a wise vintner. Brown rows of freshly turned soil wait the farmer’s hand. Planting may never come. The water is held hostage by people who have never turned the soil, who studied farming at an obscure university where sweat equity is throwing a ball through a hoop.
It is a familiar battle in the west. Water rights are mixed into a poisonous drink where peace is destroyed. Computer savvy politicians with men from Southern California and men who rise with the sun are the combatants. Those blessed to see creation at dawn and feed their family with their produce are tongue tied by the lawyers in power. As roads are squeezed into one lane by ‘repairs’, ferry’s halted, and bridges ‘under inspection and closed’, people lose hope.
The sun glints on the waves.
Salmon hide in the overhanging willows.
In a place where water laps the tree shrouded banks,
Souls are restored.
It is worth protecting,
This place of yesterday.