Mostly, days at the rabbit patch pass in an ordinary fashion. I am content with this as I love all things familiar. The world and the habits of humans change by the minute, but the rabbit patch remains constant. The “way” of the rabbit patch is timeless and unhindered by how the world measures progress. There is no status in the rabbit patch either. Wealth, prestige and power are not valued on its’ holy ground. The rabbit patch is my ” church in the wildwood” that I sang about as a child.
A dear friend, Jo Dee, came to Sunday dinner . We drank tea in fancy glasses and talked freely about whatever came up. We have “no fences” between us. Our hearts are “open books”. We ate chicken and rice at a kitchen table yet I do not believe that royalty dines any better than we did this past Sunday-at that time I was every bit as wealthy as anybody.
On Monday, I had car problems. I drive an old car and can not complain. It seems to be minor and I hope the mechanic will agree with me on that. It did change my routine. With my extra time, I went on a walk around the property. I was delighted to see that the fields behind the rabbit patch were a mass of lavender, white and pink blooms of sage. Looking at acres of flowers with that big sky overhead all at once , about brought me to my knees-it was that beautiful. How nice to get a pleasant surprise on a Monday morning. I was suddenly glad that the car had not worked properly today.
A trip to the mailbox yielded something else sweet. A friend had written a letter! I do not know the last time that happened. On the envelope she had written a verse of inspiration. Inside was a cheerful message and a question about goats! This was a far cry from the usual fanfare of the mailbox and I took great delight in it. Long ago, the women before me had a “correspondence table” and I declare that I want to do the same. The art of writing a letter should not be lost because then the happiness of receiving one will be lost as well-and that would be a shame.
Life on the rabbit patch is far from glamorous, but it is not short on beauty nor selfish with its’ treasure. It knows the language of love and speaks it well. It is a place of tender mercy at times and it can be a mighty fortress too. It is my “Church in the Wildwood”, where friends come to eat chicken and rice-and the fields of sage bloom all around it.