Remembering Winter

February, Northern Wisconsin
. . . Am made whole, if just for this hour.
Pestered out of a dreamless sleep, I leave the sleeper berth and emerge into a frozen wilderness, on the edge of a clean, empty parking lot. Just imagine, as you walk the snow of the curb, bordering commerce and wildness. The snow sparkles under blinding security lights. Near the clearing into the woods, even the fall flowers, now frozen as if time stood still, gleam with points of light upon their empty seed-heads. Reaching into the woods where the white lights are still casting but are more appreciably subtle, suddenly a change. The entire wilderness before you glitters as you watch with a child's delight. Looking between the soft firs out into the heavens, what is snow particle and what is star particle becomes indeterminable, and what is near becomes far, and far near. Just as the expanse of the heavens, the trees wear a veil of dark and diamonds, woven by millions of chance miracles. You feel you could stand here with the trees indefinitely, drinking in the celestial beauty pouring into soul from both star and snow.

An Ode to Spring

What is it about a place, with its sights, smells, loves? It can bring out the best in a man or woman. I hadn't seen the lush languid flowing Lowcountry for quite some time, I realized, once I saw it last week. As bicycle passed over the Cosgrove bridge onto the Sam-Rittenburg peninsula, wild Anise perfumed the roadside, at the edge of the foolhardy sit-mower's recent path. Still offering its gift. A kind of treaty, gracefully perhaps, if only on account of nature's end. Grabbing handfuls of it, breathing deeply. . .

From April 2015

Feeling good on the farm. I need rest. I am so glad to have gotten hard work and good feelings. I can feel romance again. I am in love with nature. Today was a day of discovery on the farm. Pawing dense strawberry foliage spilling out of black plastic covering. Seeing "henbit," showing its flirtatious beauty with its wild fuschia blooms. Who knew such a plant existed! I marveled at swiss chard, tuscano kale, as well as countless soft tufts of wild greens that blanketed and healed the ground. Most call them weeds, but my co-worker pointed out "see that one is of the mint family, you can tell from the semi-circular leaves surrounding the stem. And that one is of the pea family." These are close cousins of the species that feed us directly. The drive there was unmistakably sunny. I had seen naught but full cloud cover for two weeks, so all this sunshine was ambrosial. My eyes sang and my heart rejoiced as I passed Charleston harbor -- the water was singing, sparkling again -- James Island, John's Island -- the trees luminesced once again. Fresh pines, wise old oaks, standing like apostles, meekly declaring God's humble magnificence -- all was graciously offered to my sight. In the air was the return of spring and I thought back to my time on the farm in October, picking squash and sometimes just stopping, looking up at the trees in the morning sun, all living matter glistening, every particle, air and ground, glowing, and [a man] thinking softly, "wow, this is something else. I get to be in the pulsating heart of nature every day. Truly, I must be blessed, to feel all of this"

. . . Later, I walk the soccer fields of my youth. The heat of the earth leaks back to the air. The grass breathes moisture into the air. The fog is thick. Lights filter through the trees, heavily creating a sense of place. Place and moment is comfortably drawn about me. The air takes on a special kind of mass. The dance of shadow and light is enveloping, entrancing in my eyes.
Slowly, methodically, feet move from dew-soaked earth, up, cold grass slipping in-between toes, gathering their moisture. Savoring the quiet coolness. Bathed from the thighs down in condensed heaven. 

Goodbye Charleston

Lovely smells, warm smells
cinnamon-y, pine
sultry spring mud smells
Goodbye Charleston, my heart says

Bicycling down new paths,
Seeing the Ravenel, Ashley, and Cosgrove bridges all from one just-built dock
Napping in a stranger's docked kayak. The moon-pulled brackish water cradles me gently one last time. I get up and move on
The warm air seems to carry me forward. All is as a dream
Just drinking in the beauty.

Graceful trees arching over quiet roads,
Honeysuckle, Gardenia smells bathe me
In my blithe procession through the lands of my childhood
I am carried and given a great gift.
Like water, tugged and pulled. Giving the most deliberate impression of purpose and course. Flowing. I want for nothing, just as the trees, grass, and flowers want for nought, thriving in the fairest days and most blustery fresh storms.

Back on Earth

And there were giants in the earth in those days - Genesis 6:4

Lone Rock is a unique formation in the Wahweap Bay of Lake Powell, located in Southern Utah. It rises some 300 feet from the Lake. I see it from the highway. I want a closer look. The descent is calm. Lake Heron, Roadrunner, and the crow reveal themselves. As I approach, it becomes more beautiful and seems to have something to say. As I catch the last down-hill stretch to the beach, it utters and stops me quick. I get off the bike, hearing it. It says. . . Nothing. I listen for a minute and hear.  . . Nothing. Another minute goes by as I let the silence soak into my skin, my muscles, my bones. Finally I hear a bird chirp as it flies by. Witnessing the hills and jagged peaks thrusting up near the horizon, the rockscape gleams yellow and gives way to red, mirrors the color of the sky, eventually fading into a deeper blue, all keeping remarkable peace. This quietness strongly, tenderly exhorts one to introspection. There is nothing to hear but your own breath, the throb of heart in the temples. Something seems important about this moment, I cannot say what. As I think of the difficulties of this life, the disenfranchisement, losses uncompensated for, they seem to carry with them a hardness of earth. They have a certain texture. The have. . . slope. Amid this silence I look out at the universe of rock beings regally exalted over the lowlands upon which I stood, I heard in my mind, "Climb . . ."
Later that day, I came upon Antelope Point, and delighted and reveled in the beautiful rock outcroppings. I couldn't just look. I ran down one section of red-and-white channels, falling in a zig-zag motion down the smooth channels in the rock until I reached the water. It was beyond dangerous, and my hidden vitality had taken over and blithely carried me like a child. I splashed water on my face and waltzed merrily across sections of rock until I came to rest upon one spot that afforded a place to lay back a little and rest my head. Total happiness. The geology here shatters the dull commonplace and brings the mind out of its comfort zone. Again,  I seem to love these stones in a strange way. I love their looks, their texture, even the sensation (somewhere between sound and touch) of their layers as I bring hands down upon them, gently climbing. Indeed, there may be a common thread in our humanity that draws us to these petrified sanctuaries, some of God's finest sculptures. I have read their stone scripture and ponder upon them often.

Have always felt this way since my first wanderings as a mere boy of 19 and today I made it so: Life is a playground. We all know it when we are kids, but along the way all of us forget it. We talk and talk, but Nature is ever there, offering the gift of regal stillness. Can you hear it?

Silence is our national security, our civil defense. By destroying silence, the legacy of our deserts, we leave no room for peace, the deep peace that elevates and stirs our souls. It is silence that rocks us and awakes us to the reality of our dreams - T. Tempest Williams

Here's to remembering

Just Before the Snow. . .

I spend one morning out of thousands before me in Southern Utah, at the onset of winter. I found myself at one of the higher spots in Kolob Canyons. Rain had cleansed all views to clarity that of crystal, much like the sandstone that rose up in terrible might from the Escalante floor. A bitter front tore its way through Central Utah and was making its way here by now. To this vista -- where I sat exposed and waiting in meditative stance -- it sailed along Escalante, bending around Shuntavi Butte, rising up from the La Verkin ravines below and slammed into me. I sat, jacket removed, in the 40f morning. From where the wind came was gently sloping, lush-green hills below, which gave way to stolid redness, the canyons jutting impenetrably. I opened my tearing eyes to all of this, bright and sunflooded, while the torrent of air nearly froze my watery eyes and stole all sunwarmth. Though calm pervaded my being, the cutting ice on bare skin, winds so fierce on this frame, I was overcome and sought shelter after only minutes. Despite my stoic disregard for the cold, and attempting the inner-fire meditation which came easy in my relaxed state, I crumbled. The rock lying not far off endured it well, as it had for millenia.
The wind vanished, bringing artic winter back to S. Utah autumn after no more than a 2-minute walk back towards the canyons. Yellow dwarfed trees glowed content with the gathered light of the year, now waning. Redrock buttes, along with deep-green Junipers and Pines both scattered close up and lying like a thick carpet on the floor gave the most eternal feeling. A perpetual photo daunted time here, the racing, relentless madness of humanity set as a backdrop not even 3 miles away along Interstate-15. Travelers come here to appreciate the motionless-ness of this place, at least from a human time-scale. Many arrive, seeking, hoping, while slowly walking its sheltered crimson alcoves and azure skies, to take away a small portion of her timelessness, her wisdom. . . Back into our world of people and duties, where time is both friend and foe.

Temperance

You are as a tiny flower in desert autumn
Late blooms in the warm coolness, beautiful and so perfect,
Formed by God -- petal and pistil
Yet. . . I cannot quite pluck it up and keep as my own
It gives inspiration, a tie to God, and I return it the gift
Of breath, gratitude.

Wasatch Valley, Utah

My New Life

Before I commence this short declaration, I should turn to a statement I made almost 2 years ago:

There are times where we each must put away from ourselves that which seems a complete part of us. For this man, it was the life of a cowboy; and I, my traveling. And soon, I shall take to the road once more as an over-the-road trucker, which will be no less in-my-bones when the time comes to sever it.

That time is now. A cold breeze stirs off Lake Michigan. It causes my heart to bloom, filled with memories of Wisconsin leas and rock-outcroppings, and Michigan fruit arbors. A scent like sweet cherries drifts along the same wind that makes the leaves dance upon leaning trees. It is the sweetest July day I could dream of, all this in Gary, Indiana. I pause at the crest of a road, a small rise to the right covered in gentle grass green and tan, and the sun pouring through an opening to the left. I lean the bike beside the fence and stand upon it to see over. A dump to the left gives way to a wondrous pond bordered by marsh grasses, glittering in the late sun. What a tender day. You may wonder what of this land deemed the "rust belt" could hold my heart so, but I say to that, "We see the world not as it is, [We see the world] as we are." Mulberries are present and wild grapes are just beginning to form, reminding me of the sweet summer food that I will get to feel back in the Carolinas soon. I imagine being approached by a commissioner of culture police and asked, "I was called out here b/c of reports of attempted trespassing. What are you doing looking over that fence?". I imagine to reply, "Can't you see why? I don't believe its wrong to be connected to this earth and with all the beauty it has to tell. The vista from this fence is peaceful and worth a few hours of contemplation over. I don't need to go to a State Park to appreciate that. Its all around you. Look. See." I cannot imagine this would win much of a man of uniform, albeit he is just as human and able to feel as I, but that's another tale. I love this land of Lake Michigan marshland. This is the place where the Lord carved for me a new life. Feelings of safe-ness and gratitude abound in this heart. That, and God's creations and the beauty they share are very hard to erase entirely. Given as little as five years alone to its own ways, its vigor and virility triumphs. I'm quite ready to face it bravely.