Sweat

As I stepped outside, I paused and breathed in deeply the smell of jasmine before setting my pace for a morning walk with the dogs. As I gazed at that fragrant little flower, my eye caught the flutter of wings. A small hummingbird was feasting on the nectar. I watched his wings in wonder.

As I stood there quietly, I wondered how many times a day I walk by the wonders of life...

My eyes followed the tiny little bird as he zipped around the corner.

Duke was so excited to be out in the morning sunshine with me that he was dragging me across the street to the walking path. The sky was as blue as far the eye could see. As I fell into my morning pace, I smiled at the people I met along the way. They smiled back and some greeted me.

I watched a little Asian woman warming up in her driveway. Stretching, moving, reaching with grace and intention. I watched a woman barely running down the path with both knees heavily bandaged. I watched a man gaze across the bay with softness in his face. I watched a woman make her way down the path with her cane.

Then the bay came into view. The mountains softly etched into the skyline. Vegetation as high as I, I felt a fine thread pull across my face before stretching and breaking. As my hand brushed it away from my face, I thought of the little spinner who had worked through the night to create that thread.

I could feel my skin glistening in the warmth of the sun. It will be warm today. I know this with certainty in light of my blog entry yesterday. As I walk along the bay, my mind roams to the vision of the workers in the fields. I can see them bent over the crops carefully harvesting the produce. Their hats casting shadows across their faces. The long-sleeved cotton shirts protecting their skin from the hot summer sun. I can smell the acridity of the sweat. I can feel the fatigue of their muscles as they bend over their duties.

Then I remember the tired faces in different colors lining the road a few days ago next to the signs protesting the treatment of laborers. Those migrant (not to be confused with immigrant) workers feed this country, as they work their way from the South to the North each year. They do not bask in the climate of California, they toil in it.

Then I realize why their children frequently work so hard to be more...because they watch and learn and work beside their parents. They know the price.