by Kathy Brasby | Sep 21, 2012 | Stories
As a writer, I don’t waste any new emotion that surfaces inside of me. I probe and consider. So lately I’ve been exploring the fringes of regret.
To be honest, I didn’t expect this one. My father died recently at age 90 and we all knew he was fading. I was determined in his last years to have no regrets. I spent extra time visiting, going to gatherings and birthday parties. He got extra hugs (he wasn’t a huggy kind of guy but he seemed to like them in his later years) and I had a chance to thank him for his input into my life.
I didn’t want to have regrets. And I don’t regret any of those things.
But as I journey through the pain of his loss, I find unexpected regrets. Regret that he won’t ever finish the engine project in the garage. Regret that he’ll never again stand in his corn field, shovel in hand. Regret that he won’t see his youngest grandchildren get married.
Regrets for what he will never do now.
That regret strikes me when I least expect it, with a sharp jab that makes me draw a long breath.
I know he’s in a better place. He held to his faith when everything else slipped away. He was anxious to go home. And it helps me to imagine him with young legs, a strong back, a mind that once again can solve a broken object.
But I want to seize the new insights for my own life. What do I want to do before it’s my turn to join him before our Lord?
I have a few things on my mind and they’re rising to the top of my priority list. We’ll always have regrets but I’m planning to reduce the list. My sister and I often joke that we rush in where angels fear to tread. I’m thinking it’s time to ramp that up a bit.
by Kathy Brasby | Sep 19, 2012 | Hope
My father was a sugar beet farmer in Colorado, a fact which sculpts my thinking more now than it did when I was hoeing weeds in eternally-long fields as a teenager.
Where once a farm was 80 or 160 acres, now they need to be well over 1000 acres or the farmer will go broke. That logically means there a lot less farmers – and even less family farms.
What are we losing as the family farm becomes a blip of historical nostalgia?
- Fewer people know where milk or eggs come from. The correct answer is not Safeway or Walmart.
- Not so many get to see the magnificent thunderclouds, roiling in purples and blacks, marching toward the tender crops. Although there’s fear that a hailstorm could devastate this year’s crop – and income – we participate in the circle of life as those storms approach.
- We’ve lost the appreciation for smells. We demand sweet scents or nothing at all. But I’ve experienced the fresh scent of rain and the sharp slap of animal remains. Why do we shrink from authentic sensory experiences?
- The rhythms of life – which include death – are more readily seen on the farm. I have experienced loss – of a favorite dog, a 4-H cow, a baby lamb. The sting of loss never gets easier but I’m glad that I’m not numb to it.
- I’ve heard corn grow, the pops of expansion as the leaves stretch out toward the sky.
- I’ve seen the stages of soil, from slimy mud to sun-parched jigsaw pieces. I know the rain will come. Someday. And I know the snows are followed by seeds punched into the ground, soon to emerge in a green fringe across the landscape.
I could go on but my understanding – and the way I write – has been molded by the seasons and the rawness of senses. I am born of the land, walking a unique path. And I love it.
by Kathy Brasby | Aug 7, 2012 | Stories
I am a writer, a photographer, a videographer, a teacher and much more. I am very curious and I love to learn. This blog will contain snippets of what I’m learning and also my thoughts on what I read and see.
As a writer, my goal is to discover meaning in chaos. We live in a jumbled world. Many opinions blast us moment by moment. Colors, images, noises, smells – we are in sensory overload as well.
But there is meaning to be found. I’m confident of that.
The current plan for me is to post three times a week, on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Join me on this journey of discovery.