I have not an epistle of courage to offer you, riding the tufts of air, that would land, take root and hold ground. I have only an episodic blip on my journey to share. You see a word, a word mind you, had been buzzing in my ear for days. “Fecundity, fecundity, fecundity”. Relentlessly. I am embarrassed to admit, I did not know the true definition of the word, nor did I take the time to investigate. My hair had not fallen about this word until the day I saw the blinding yellow field.
I’d like to think that the field found me, like a streak of yellow lightning , intersecting with the earth, running along the ground until it finds a connection, and not the other way around. Perhaps it was the convergence of the seasons, the light at the particular time of day, my temperament or willingness to release to a moment, I do not know, but I believe it to be the synchronicity that appears not to be of man’s choosing. In any event, the flash of yellow caught the corner of my eye. Turning my head to see the full view, I immediately, without delay, you see, veered my car to the closest exit off I-40 eastbound, made a series of right turns, and drove until the asphalt ran out and a dirt road took over. I could not stop until I found that yellow field. The word, this word kept honing me closer and closer until I arrived at the mass of yellow, solid and intense, on a scale I had never witnessed before.
A bright blue, cloudless sky capped the flat field as old hardwoods outlined the edges. The wind, rough and ready, descended in bursts capturing the attention of the tallest trees first, then continuing its pursuit, recklessly rolling through the tall yellow crop of southern greens going to seed. The delicate stalks anchored and unfazed by the umbrage of the wind, would bow and return upright. It appeared to me that a yellow blanket was being unfurled and spread out for a lover’s picnic.
If there had been clouds in the sky, I could have detected how intense the wind was, but without them I could not hold my bearings. Standing on the open edge of the field, time dissolved. My skin grew sore from the whipping wind. The wind contested my tucking pieces of hair behind my ears and would pick up the strands and release them from their fixed state, slicing my cheeks and piercing my eyes along the way. The mirage of a lover’s picnic faded and what I saw before me was a battlefield and, I, the soldier returning to reclaim the bones of a severed limb. The wind dying, a deep sense of aloneness collected in my heart. I held my sun bleached bones closer to my chest.
Knowing a word and having it become flesh is risky business. If I had not looked down to the ground on the fringe of the field that day, I wouldn’t have seen the broken stalks left by another who had been standing in the exact same place. I would have returned home, starred out my porch window, confirming my loneliness and felt bitterly misled. But I looked down, you see, and I saw the imprint left by another who had seen the glorious, vast sprawl and stopped for a moment, who knows how long. I dropped to my knees, head bobbing in a sea of yellow; overcome.
“Fecundity, fecundity, fecundity.” There is more than enough.