|Part of my armor|
I can look like an extrovert; I can act like an extrovert. But the plain truth is that I can only maintain the facade for a limited amount of time before I must find a quiet place to recharge.
And that's important.
|Phoebes on a foggy morning|
Which brings me back to the farm.
Here is my refuge. It's so quiet I can hear the sedge grass whispering in the breeze. I can hear the call of the bobwhite, and the song of the meadowlark. I can hear myself think.
|A field of buttercup|
And tomorrow, I return to the extrovert world--to the noise, to the constant motion, to the incessant distraction. But in my mind, in my heart, like the sweet scent of black locust trees, the memory of a golden field of buttercup stills my soul.
What restores you?