A stump sat in the middle of a meadow brimming with wildflowers, and weeds, and butterflies, and birdsong, and little creatures. Each morning, as the sun rose, a wise old man sank onto that stump. And the wisdom of the ages filled him.
It was more than enough.
One still morning, the stump sat empty. The wildflowers, and the weeds, and the butterflies, and the birds, and the little creatures rejoiced, for they felt closer than ever to the wise old man.
One evening, at sunset . . .
a young man, whom the meadow did not know, sat upon the stump. His mind whirled with questions.
Who am I?
How can I prosper?
The meadow answered,
but the young man did not hear.
Next morning, as the sun rose, a tractor chugged. Steel blades ripped into the meadow.
At the stump, the tractor stopped. “There’s that stump,” the young man grumbled. “Stuck in the middle of my meadow. I’ll have to come back for it later.” He eased the tractor round.
Years passed. Cycles of corn towered. The stump sat forgotten.
Early one spring, before plowing, the man set out to remove the stump, something he should have done years ago. The meadow, cloaked in stubby corn, crackled under his footsteps. When he reached the stump, he bent to lift it.
It wouldn’t budge.
He pushed with all his might.
It still wouldn’t budge.
Sweat dripped from his brow. “Whew.” He rested on the stump. “Guess I’ll need the tractor.”
A scraggly piece of wild mustard bloomed alongside the stump. He reached to yank it. A swallow swooshed his hat. “Hey!” He swatted.
From far away, the frolicking song of a mockingbird filled the morning.
The notes drifted loud over the empty field. A ray of morning sun hit the man in the chest. His gaze traveled high into the vast blue.
A gentle breeze ruffled the hair on his brow, and like that breeze, something deep within him stirred. Something larger than himself.
It was an answer nibbling at his soul, and for the first time, he listened.
Go to the meadow. Find your answers.
All photographs and words property of author.