You know my town. You know how I choose to live. It is quiet here and safe with children playing, biking, doors unlocked, sweet and simple.
I chose to live here years ago when Bob and I brought the children to northern Indiana to build a farm. Our lives have since scattered...we all grew up and moved on.
I have a lovely old house now that is and has been home to many. The steps creak at night when the last one goes to bed. Andy tosses the morning paper on the steps in the early morning which appears to be my wake up call.
We eat from the garden, do good work, and travel on when necessary.
Our lives are so far from Libya and other places of the world that I wonder if we are immune to such brutality? We try to grieve for others, we watch it on the news and we speak of it at the supper table.
We then go back outside to pick sunflowers and watch the stars come out.
How do we exist in this world?
I once had a teacher in college who read us this book (or something like this), "Teacher, the geranium just fell off the shelf and you kept reading."
When do we stop reading? And when do we begin again?