Tonight is a lovely June evening at Riverview Camp. The sun is slowly sinking, coloring the leaves a luscious shade of gold and green and glinting off the Cedar River’s calm surface. One year ago, things weren’t nearly so serene around here. Volunteers were sandbagging the river in downtown Cedar Falls. Further downstream, the city of Cedar Rapids was flooding.
One year ago my son was in the monastery feeding goats and contemplating making his final vows. My daughter was home, lonely for her college friends and terrified by the specter of spinsterhood haunting her future. My mother was living in her own home, mowing her own yard. And I was organizing the notes for my first contracted book, wondering if I could shape the manuscript into something people would want to read.
Tonight my son, who left the monastery six months ago and just completed his third month on the job at the organic farm, called to say his work evaluation went well, he’s being promoted. Could we help him move into his apartment the weekend after July 4? My daughter’s boyfriend will spend the night at our house Saturday. A family of four now lives in Mom’s old house, Mom lives with my brother’s family and she refuses to mow their yard. And this afternoon, one of the authors endorsing my book and attending this writing conference, held up my book galleys for everyone to see.
One year ago, if a crystal ball had offered me a glimpse of today, I would have said it was cracked, crazy, cruel to entice me with such hope, such happiness, such sadness, and the possibility of a dream-come-true. There was no way, I would have said, for all those things to happen and for me to be alive to tell about it. No way, crystal ball. Quit teasing me.
One year ago, I would have scoffed. But today, I turn my face to the green leaves washed gold, to the sun sinking sun beyond the river and into into the next year, and I wonder what lies beyond this present world’s horizon. I take a deep breath and steady myself before I open my eyes.
It could be anything.
