And Still the Road Goes On

415521835_de8ca94b7c_b.jpg

A single road stretches through the forest the end disappearing beyond the curve of the hill. A mystery of a few steps further, a journey in time yet to pass.

And still the road goes on,

A mist drops to the ground, shrouding the road in a purple haze, better looked at then traveled through. Rain follows after, a wall of singular droplets cascading in rhythm to create an almost impassable barrier.

And still the road goes on,

Trees fall, rocks roll blocking entire sections off form safety. Climb overtop, the road can be seen in the distance, a looming reminder of continuing forward.

And still the road goes on,

Darkness falls, clinging like a veil to the face. Pulling, grasping, clawing and yet darkness remains. Thick, heavy, welcomed and feared. A time to weep, a time to sigh a time to sleep.

And still the road goes on,

With sun, golden, streaming through the green canopy above, softly touching below, sharing light where once was dark.

And still the road goes on,

Always on and on, just around one more corner, up one more hill, through one more glade and thicket. The road goes on. When washed from underfoot, when blown, when burned,  forever on and on, the road must go.

url

Moments

Moments

Ever just have a moment where you pause and think, “God, today is perfect!” It happens every so often to me, particularly when I am outside enjoying nature. I think nature is the purest form of perfection. Even in its most treacherous moments, it is still an image of something more then I could ever hope to recreate.

I was out gathering sticks for the wood stove, living in the far reaches of the country we have a cast iron stove that heats the stove. As it is mid march and snowing today its safe to say that fires are still being lit and kept to take the occasional chill out of the room. As I was gathering sticks I couldn’t help but find myself admiring how perfect the day was.

The day was sunny, lit with the glow of an afternoon sun.The effulgent browns and oranges of the the baleful winter were highlighted with a golden hue. Gusts of wind rushed through the leafless branches, a wind that spoke of someone else’s adventure from another land. A wind that held a mystery around the corner for those brave enough to seek it.

Near to me my dog flounced and pounded through the underbrush, chasing the shadows of leaves and birds above. It was a moment of peace, a moment of things being right in the world. There were no cries of outrages at human atrocity, no intransigent criss cross chaos of candidates and voters arguing the same rhetoric of centuries past, and seldom a passing motorist on the road below. A perfect moment.

How rare those seem to be. Perfect moments. Yet, people say life is made up of moments, moments compiled onto more moments creating strings of memories; many of which are committed to remembrance only to be washed away with age. If life is made up of moments shouldn’t we notice them more? Take that pause in the already strident and race driven lives to notice when a moment graces our feet? I believe that there more perfect moments then not, if only recognized for the moment that they are.

 

Such as my cat, walking across the living room to give me nose rub before settling on his favorite chair for the eight successive nap in the evening.