Blog

A memory from an Indiana farm, captured in the hills of Puerto Rico

It all started one summer on the farm—a typical Indiana summer, gently enveloped in warmth and nostalgia. The house had stood for eighty-five years, its windows brimming with tales, while its porch had been smoothed by the passage of time. In the front yard, two aging pear trees loomed, having long lost their fruit-bearing days, yet still remaining—bare-branched, twisted, and beautifully enduring each autumn.

That was where she first spotted the bird.

An Eastern Bluebird rested delicately on a crooked branch, its feathers shimmering in the morning sunlight like a piece of the sky. It gazed across the walnut tree-filled field and over the gently sloping land leading down to Salt Creek, which split the property like a seam between stories. The bluebird sat still and tranquil, as though it had always claimed that spot—balancing between the living and the fading, the past and the present.

It returned day after day. At times, it would perch on the window sill, tilting its head to peer inside, as if trying to absorb the atmosphere. Other times, it settled on the pear branches, framed by the golden light, a gentle burst of blue and rust. It never sang, but its silence was laden with significance.

She began to paint again—an activity she had abandoned for years. Naturally, the bird became her muse, although no brushstroke could truly capture the quiet assurance it embodied. Her canvas bloomed with warm yellows, worn wood hues, and bare branches stretching like memories toward the light. The bluebird transcended being just a bird; it evolved into the essence of the place—a messenger, a small, winged observer of her life there.

Now she resides far away, in the vibrant hills of Puerto Rico, where the trees resonate with sound and the ocean kisses the shore. Yet on certain days, when the wind is gentle and the tranquility envelops her, she recalls the farm: the two land segments divided by the creek, the walnut trees, the house that held the essence of time, and the fading pear trees in the yard.

And the bluebird.

Always the bluebird.

Feathers in the quiet.

A presence that required no sound to be felt.

August 3, 2025