Coming Home

Joy has always been a scary condition. Growing up in the philosophy of God as a grouchy old man with his finger poised over the "Smite" button will do that to a person. But I'm learning to be brave and not duck every time I feel happy. Which is a good thing because I'm so happy since we came home to Iowa.

I certainly miss some things about Ann Arbor -- foreign films at the Michigan Theater, the Sweetwaters Cafe on Washington Street, the availability of goat cheese -- but I've gained so much more than I've lost. Nothing huge -- unless you count the square footage of mowable yard -- just lots of little things I'd forgotten I loved -- the color of ripe soy beans, working outside all day and getting really dirty, the calls of killdeer and bobwhites, battered farm cats who live a Darwinian existence but still like a cuddle if you'll only sit down on the front step.

So I will not dishonor joy by pushing it aside. I'll sit down on the back step with a little calico cat with a crumpled ear, watch the wind blow the pansies around, and wait for the cicadas to start warming up.