The title is both a description and a gentle imperative.
When we traveled through the beautiful Northern Plains, it seemed bison were as prevalent as cattle in Texas. They were dotted along immense stretches of rugged grassy terrain, backdropped by plateaus and mountains. A bison’s “home” is miles and miles of valleys, plains, and scrublands to roam. They are movers, plowing their way through winter and moseying through summer. What drives them is the forage. It’s the smell of what’s being served that season in that particular place that directs their massive, buried heads. It dictates their daily paths, their well-traveled lines, and their often unpredictable routes for the season.
As the season begins to change here, I find myself tightening up, trying to control all outcomes… trying to identify our roots and routes so as to provide myself a sense of stability, actually control. But I will break (again) to humbly live what I know. My stability has always been outside of me. It’s in seeing and smelling the provision right under my nose that has come from God’s hand. It’s trusting and steadily moving on their route, though it may be a bit different than what I mapped out the year before. It’s steadying to a nomadic pace and tending the ground right here, under my feet. Plowing and moseying. Intermittent resting and foraging. Steady, Girl.
I’m also in love with sagebrush and its almost snow-white greens and dark hardy bases that allow you to finger the soft leaves and blooms above but refuse to bend for you to walk through. I’m drawn to beauty that puts on a pair of work pants and boots.