A Chronicle of Attunement and Tending the Field
Journal Entry One
I am planting sod in my own yard, but I am tending the field of another place. A place that does not yet exist in stone and timber, but lives in the field of potential. A beach house. Maybe by a lake. Maybe both. I feel it there, beyond the horizon of what is known and solid.
The landscaping is more than landscaping. It is fieldwork. It is the clearing and tuning of the very signal that calls that next place into form. I am not just working in soil—I am moving through time. Each piece of sod laid is a whisper in the field, a note in the song of what is emerging.
This is not about manifesting. It is about attunement. The dream is already there, shimmering beneath the surface. My hands in the soil, my sweat, my effort—all of it is tuning the path toward it. The shovel is not just breaking dirt; it is breaking open a channel where the future can grow.
Journal Entry Two
I turn the soil with the edge of my shovel, and there it is—white, curled, waiting. A grub, neither a threat nor a gift, but simply part of the field. Its pale body flexes, shifting as if interrupted from its quiet work. I know what it is, what it may become—a beetle, emerging to fly and feed. In excess, it can strip roots bare, undoing the very earth I tend. But here, just one, it is not a threat. It is a whisper of balance.
I feel the impulse to remove it, to crush it, to declare it an enemy of the field. But I pause. I have seen no dead patches, no raccoon-digged craters in the lawn. I have only seen life springing forth—lush, green, tuned to the rhythm of care. I am not at war with this soil. I am not at war with this grub. I am here to tend, to listen, to trust.
The beetles will come, and with them the birds, the natural rhythm of things unfolding as they should. I am learning to feel the difference between imbalance and presence. The grub is present, but it is not disruptive. I choose to leave it where it is.
Journal Entry Three
The hawks are circling. They cut wide arcs across the open sky, drifting on thermals with a grace that speaks to something older than instinct—something like knowing. They do not flap or flutter. They glide. To watch them is to witness the pure economy of movement. They have read the wind, and the wind carries them.
Below, a songbird moves, but only straight down—from branch to branch, a careful descent into shadow. Its rhythm is different. Small, measured, intentional. It does not flee in wild abandon; it moves with precision. Each drop a choice. Each choice a calculation of safety and shelter. The hawks do not see it. The branches hold it safe.
A dragonfly cuts across the yard twenty feet above the soil, its wings flickering with defiance. It does not spiral or retreat. It moves forward, a straight line through the air, cutting past the trees without pause. No hawk watches it. It is too small, too fast, too aligned with its own path to be interrupted. It knows its rhythm. It knows its place.
Three movements in the field—each aligned, each attuned. The hawk gliding in spirals of watchfulness. The songbird dropping branch to branch, hidden and deliberate. The dragonfly soaring straight through, undeterred by the predators above.
Journal Entry Four
The earth is heavy today. I feel it in the curve of the shovel, the weight of each wheelbarrow load. I am shaping the land—engineering, designing, moving rock and soil as if I were carving out the terrain of my own thoughts. But beneath the movement, there is a quiet stillness, a sense of standing pat even as I work.
Today, I am moving soil, stacking stone, scraping the surface clean with water and pressure. But I feel the duality in it—the doing and the being, the shaping and the holding still.
Maintenance is movement, even when it looks like stillness. I did not force; I followed. I understand now that standing pat isn’t inaction—it’s attuned action. It’s moving only when the field calls for it, resting when the soil needs to breathe.
These entries are part of the DLEIF transmission.