Rooted

It’s early morning on the back porch. I’m visiting family in Virginia. My senses are on nostalgia overload.

Florida is my chosen home, but Virginia is my birthplace. I feel rooted; this is the land where my ancestors have walked since the late 1600s. I feel connected; this is the origin of my family tree and the resting place of my people.

I bask in the moment.

The sun has dawned but has yet to breach the heavy tree line. The morning blue sky hosts a waning gibbous moon. A gentle breeze cuts through the thick, humid air. The fern-like leaves of the nearby mimosa tree dance; I inhale the sweet fragrance of her blossoms.

An evergreen shrub at the edge of the porch is a playground for a tufted-titmouse; she bounces from limb to limb. She pauses, and for a moment, we watch each other.

Sunlight spills into the backyard. Birds pop in and out of the shadows. I’m serenaded by native birdsongs: robins, white-throated swallows, tufted titmice and chickadees. Cicadas and crickets join in the concert. A bumblebee buzzes close by, pausing to feed on the brightly colored impatiens. The delightful scent of clover brings back fond memories of barefoot childhood summers.

Enticed, I reach over and touch the sun-kissed tomato vine, knowing its earthy, potent – and quite pleasing - scent will linger on my fingertips.

The sunlight floods the porch. The breeze ceases. The black cat in the rocker lazily watches the birds. The cicada song gets louder. My grandmother once told me the louder their song, the hotter the day. If that’s the case, today’ll be a doozy.

I love Virginia mornings.

For the Lord is good; His lovingkindness is everlasting And His faithfulness to all generations.

~ Psalm 100: 5