Words from Woodbine
I live in a village called Woodbine. A dear friend thinks the name would make a great title for one of the novels I dream of writing. Woodbine consists of about eighteen houses, three odd antique shops, and a neighbor who chops wood daily and owns a penned up Saint Bernard, a turkey in his shed, and some chickens.
We also boast bee keepers, a shade tree mechanic, farmers, and piano composers. We have Belted Galloway cows, a mean German shepherd who terrorizes my puppy, an abundance of rhubarb plants, a Christ-filled church, and a Pepsi machine. In my backyard, there is a championship golf course and a clubhouse. Yes, in my backyard. Yes, in the little village.
This morning I put on my shoes; I needed a transfer of energy– more movement in my body and more stillness in my mind. I walked the golf cart path on the course for the first time. I simply followed the pavement without having to think. So easy. No choosing. No hesitation. No questions. Oh, how I’ve complicated the paths by wondering and wandering. My prayers have been simple lately. ‘Thank you, thank you. Help me, help me. Lead me. Lead me.”