We humans fling life wherever we go. It’s one of the things I like about us – this life flinging.
A neighbor calls this morning to see if I want some cucumber starters to plant and life is flung as gardens and patches and starters are shared and planted and dug and replanted and tended and harvested only to begin again in another season.
A family’s young travel the seas and the highways for fun and for work and life is flung, our DNA sent out into the world and I think of my own man-boy son deep sea fishing and say to the sea you better be nice to him – that’s my DNA you’ve got in your hands.
A church gathers in Scotland and debates in its Scots’ way, leaving no one satisfied and many hands wrung and flung – life.
A tornado weaves its way through a plain designed perfectly for such things, leaving devastation and death in its wake . . . and a man sitting in his rocking chair bedecked in his overalls house gone and life is flung with each sway of his chair.
A friend walks through the woods and gathers on her shoes the detritus of the forest and carries it back to her home and somewhere on a blade of grass rests a seed of something new waiting for the right combination of rain and sun and dirt to burst forth – life is invasive that way and we fling it wherever we go whether we mean to or not.
Just another life-flinging day.