Sometimes we need a buffer zone. Waiting for the wheels of justice to arrive and demand restitution for a life devoured by violence makes me realize that the wheels must be square. Sometimes we need a buffer zone. We/I need protection from what I know and what I will know and what I wish I didn’t have a driving need to know.
My buffer zone is all around me and I can be thankful that when I most need it, it is right here. It is in the sunrise and set, in the horses and cattle grazing the pastures, in the blossoms that struggled through the May snow and still intend to produce fruit even though their pretty white and pink edges are a bit brown, in the words, “Can a man get a kiss?” spoken in midst of work, in the thunderheads building with a promise of possible rain, in the birds chittering in the branches, in the farmers working ground and planting, in the heifer who stands drooling and maybe wondering why I’m watching her, in the sweet sound of my guitar strumming familiar tunes, in the sourdough proofing on the counter, in the snap chats from Alex and others, in the Mono-myths my students are writing, in the flowery smell of lilacs, in the power of the Psalms, and in the memories of time.