I have heard that one of the most peaceful and picturesque places on earth is near a farm in North Dakota. There, among the gently rolling hills is a small rocky outcrop; and from it, I’ve been told, one can see for miles across a sea of deep, golden wheat, the unending husks bent in submission to the summer wind like faithful parishioners forming a vast, peaceful, living weather vane. And when the wind gusts, as I hear it frequently does, it sweeps all before is as a giant invisible wave: the rich loam of gold awakes and then lyrically rustles–though some believe that by carefully listening one can hear whispers bearing secrets of love, tragedy, hardship, and hope–for the fields have borne witness to generations. Alas, there too, on that ledge is a slender figure–her four-direction compass defined not by points east and north, but by compassion, intelligence, warmth, and inspring beauty.
Oh, and what a wonderful moment it will be for someone, someday–on one of those perfect, lazy, summer afternoons when the bees hover for nectar and a few black birds caw and soar in the azure sky–when he can sit upon that rocky outcrop next to her, and gaze to the distant horizon.
Love. This I believe.