Seasons and Cycles

Like most funerals, this one came suddenly.

Unexpectedly.

In the weeks before, farmers and ranchers were scrambling to salvage what they could of their livelihoods from the intense heat and grasshoppers.

Conversations centered on finding someone – anyone – with pasture for rent.

Wheat was short and thin.

Smoke from wildfires clouded the air, hiding the mountains that keep us all centered.

The forecast predicted more of the same.

It’s easy to forget the people who live down the road when you’re gazing at your navel, worrying about conditions that are out of your control and about to overwhelm you, anxious about when it will end or, worse, whether it will end.

But when a fellow rancher died, my neighbors looked up.

Even better, they reached out their hands, offering all they had.

The church was packed. Someone found extra chairs.

White foreheads that rarely see the sun glowed in the pews.

Rough hands cradled straw cowboy hats on laps.

Clean plaid shirts and town boots touched shoulder to shoulder and toe to toe.

Nobody wailed in agony.

Nobody broke down in sobs.

As they waited for the funeral to begin, friends who loved the man who died and still love his family did what people from farms and ranches do.

They offered a distraction to family members, a moment of relief from the all-consuming pain.

They asked if the cows were in the right pasture.

They talked about new business ventures.

They described roping an ornery steer.

These weren’t uncomfortable, forced conversations. They were gifts.

I know from experience that family members won’t remember the gentle words, but they will remember the kindness.

I drove from that funeral to another of life’s rites of passage.

The wedding was outdoors, with a renovated barn as Plan B.

Rain from the night before had washed the dust from the trucks and smoke from the air.

Straw cowboy hats covered white foreheads.

So did baseball hats -- with sunglasses sitting at the ready.

Dresses that hang in closets for 364 days of the year were on display.

Shorts and sandals stood next to pressed slacks and polished boots.

The affable preacher told corny Dad Jokes about knowing the bride since she had been a baby.

We all carried our own chairs into the barn for the reception.

The grand sliding barn doors opened to a magnificent view of the mountains that keep us centered.

The bride and groom smiled and laughed with their guests, happy and relaxed.

They cut the small cake and fed each other gently, kindly.

I returned to the ranch with the job of gathering and stacking hay in front of me.

Cruising around on my tractor, preparing for winter, the rhythm of the seasons of the land beat steadily, offering a reliable bassline for my life.

Many people compare the cycles of life to the seasons on the land – spring is birth, summer is life at its fullest, fall is time to slow down and enjoy the fruits of summer and winter is the time we die.

I disagree.

The land doesn’t die.

It grows.

It rests.

It grows again, with no malice, no retribution, no anxiety over change or lack of control.

Farmers and ranchers hear the rhythm of the land’s bassline. They depend on that rhythm, know it offers a kind and gentle foundation for whichever melody of the life they choose.

Maybe that’s why we pause to gather with kindness and relaxed acceptance of who we are -- with white foreheads and rough hands and fancy dresses and casual shorts -- to celebrate the people who commit to growing together and to celebrate the people we will miss.

Because we are of the land.