Friday we drive through the mountains. They tower above the car, still covered with snow and I am mourning.
Occasionally waterfalls travel down the grey rock, melding with the ice and dirt. I want to stop and rinse my face in one, feel the water coat my hands, cup them, fill them. Lift it to my face. I want to stand under the water until I am saturated.
Saturday I plant vines. Dirt cakes my nails and I think of water turned to wine and words written in earth and how these hundreds of brown sticks we are planting look dead.
With my toddlers hand on my thigh and dirt under her nails too, I think about the mystery of shoots unfurling, green leaves filling out and the thousands of pounds of grapes that will be harvested from this barren looking field.
I think about a lot of mysteries. I think about how beautiful things come from dust.