Tuesday, September 30, 2014

Cotton and Dust

One year at Mepkin Abbey, my friend and I walked to the African-American cemetery.  To get there, you have to walk through fields of cotton.

My friend commented that she'd never actually seen cotton growing in a field.  I, on the other hand, grew up for part of my life in Alabama, where we learned about the importance of the cotton gin by going to a field, picking some cotton, and seeing how difficult it is to pull the seeds out of it.

I assumed that I would spend my life surrounded by fields of crops.  But then I moved to South Florida, where I'm surrounded by concrete.

Vizcaya with Miami in the Background

A few years ago, we drove through Georgia to get to my grandmother's funeral.  For part of the trip, we took some back roads.  I saw cotton fields and was struck by how seldom I see cotton growing anymore--or any agriculture.

North Carolina Apple Orchard

I will spend much of my life mourning all that is passing away, missing all the items from my past which once seemed so permanent.

It's a potent lesson, from the cotton field that ends in a cemetery--nothing is permanent.  All is passing away.

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