“You will find that it is all very familiar…the strange and faraway places where you’ve never been. The wild unknown leads you to a place just around the corner. Take a picture when you get there…the road is you.” – J. Bebe, R. Hammond
My heart belongs to the open road. Always has…always will.
There is a hidden mystery beyond each curve and bend in the road. Nature defends against the ongoing tirade of human occupancy and cloaks her crevices in the foliage of decrepit urban decay. Asphalt fractures and leans precarious into coverts; tree limbs stretch skyward warmed by the sun’s prompt to tangle wires, downing lines; vines, roots, push and prod the loose gravel apart weeping for sunlight. These sacred sentinels are what draw me each and every time further into their womb, up the winding mountain back roads. I too wish to leave my humanity behind.
Today the road beckoned with open arms. Come see us, we’ve grow. Mother earth is awake, come see…
Clones of naked bark reached stick limbs skyward tickling the Persian sky until it burst into giggles of strata wisp. A familiar land mark slides into view - ‘The hand of God’, a tree trunk in a field sharpened by time and pointing toward the heavens. A few weather worn barns gave up the ghost losing the war with the elements. Grass the color of wheat balled and rolled across fields not yet warmed into spring’s recurring bottle green. A mare held her head high nostrils sniffing the air, tail waving a salute readying for the scourge of flies soon to come. Although heart warming one and all, I continued looking for another undiscovered bend or turn in the road.
A left hand turn into another right and the familiar began to fall away as winding twist in the roads rose higher and higher up the mountain. A smile teased across my face at the sight of snow sulking in the shadows beneath pine boughs. The vista opened up to reveal the next slope on the rollercoaster highway and a lake spread out in the valley below. Ice bathed all but her shore, slowly slinking back on itself and giving way to winters mourning. This was a haven I’d not traveled before. Every fiber of my being grinned with anticipation as the tires ate the asphalt and moved with the contours of the land around me.
A spontaneous day, urged on impulse bared the soul of the open road between seasons. I couldn’t help but feel as if I’d been let in on a secret kept hidden from prying eyes. There is an incredible intensity in the in-between, a not quite ready, almost, and I am here sense of understanding – which is ethereal in its beauty.
Life has been my greatest teacher.
As a writer, I trace life lessons across the pages of a book. In those ‘I’m not quite done moments’, there is still concrete substance to my words with room to grow. Everything sits in between seasons before blooming to full potential. We begin; we grow, flourish, and complete the cycle. - Indigo
Original picture here