Windshield Time

I’ve been spending a lot of time behind a windshield lately – mostly delivering meat and hauling steers.

As I drive, I think about things.

First, I think about the detailed schedule of 15-minute increments I need to maintain. A flat tire would cause a huge delay.

Then I think about what I need to do tomorrow that I am not doing today because I’m driving.

My list grows and my week fills out.

Then I think about what I need to do to make the ranch better –  everything from helping the soil microbes, putting salt out for the livestock, and building some fences.

Then Christmas crosses my mind. Fleetingly.

Then I worry that I forgot to write a critical duty on my list.

Then I wonder if anyone else in the entire world is as weird.

Finally, if the trip is long enough, I think about slowing my mind so I can listen to my gut.

Past the coffee buzz, past the to-do list, I focus on how to do what makes me happiest.

The list starts with people, of course, and quickly moves to the land and air and open space that feed my biggest addiction.

But setting aside the busy, pulling the shield away from my intuition, is hard.

It’s easier to hide behind a schedule of 15-minute increments and a project list.

The season helps slow things down.

After all, short days allow only so much hay hauling and fence building.

The four seasons naturally give the soil microbes, plants and animals a rhythm that offers growth and rest. Humans – and maybe especially some of us weirdos – try to beat back the natural seasonal rhythms with lights and outdoor heaters and alarm clocks set an hour earlier.

We even schedule the busiest holiday season, creating the most chaos, right smack in the darkest days of winter.

I’m beginning to wonder if that’s a bad idea.

Maybe we should take a hint from grass.

Not that kind of grass.

Well, okay, that kind of grass gives hints, too, but I am talking about cool-season monocots.

I think about how the sun feels on my shoulders on the day I see green sprigs popping up along the edges of receding snowbanks.

As the days get longer, if I listen I can almost hear the grass growing. I certainly hear the raucous chirping birds, chattering gophers and dashing lambs.

When the days are longest, the grass sends a seedhead reaching toward the sun and packs all of its extra energy into its future.

Then, during the hottest days, grass scrambles to help its seeds -- its offspring if it were a mammal -- plump and prepare to go start a new plant.

As the days shorten, the grass still works, but not at a frenzied pace, to fill its roots, storing energy so it can hibernate while the sun sends rays that whisper to the ground.

By the time grass is blanketed by leftover leaves and stems – and sometimes snow -- silence dominates.

The grass rests, says no to the tempting idea of sending up fresh new leaves, even when a few noisy, giddy, warm days in February are sandwiched between deadly snow storms.

By saying no, the grass feeds itself for its most important work that will come later.

I said no once.

When my husband, Steve, died, I quit the Chamber of Commerce, quit the arts council and quit cleaning my house.

I felt liberated.

My priorities became threefold: Keep my daughter, Abby, safe; take care of the livestock and avoid getting hurt.

It’s time to add a fourth priority: Listen to the grass.

I’ll start listening right after I buy new tires.