Two trees in the snow
Washed over in white
Softening the landscape and my mind
Erasing the tracks of yesterday, yesteryear
Smoothing over, soothing over
A downy silk sheet
Somehow tender and forgiving
The rocks and brush and fallen trees covered
Ravines are leveled with the land
The horizon eases beyond blending with the sky
A hillside painted white
Two broodmares in the snow
Somehow I thought we would find our home here. I thought we could make it, build it, create it, fight for it. The voices of the past fought us stronger than the elements, proved harsher than the winter storms. They said it would be the weather, the elevation, the isolation. Binds of the past suffocate even in wide open spaces. Shallow roots do not hold in muddy ground.
I have no land where my family laid down roots. We clung to roots here, buried too thin, and the trees are blowing over. Where may I bury my roots deep and solid? Is it too late for me to grow my own?
I do not feel fear in moving on, though there are waves of sadness and anger that come and go. I allow them to wash over and back with the tide. I look forward to today, to tomorrow, to adventures, challenges, to our life, our creations, together.
The goodness I see in my child open to newness. We discuss the greatness in travel, in change, in one placing oneself outside the box, outside the comfort zone. Is there anything that forces a mind to open and grow more? The book of life, pages blown open in a draft as the door releases. We can no longer hide behind our safe blanket of beliefs. Truth is exposed. The world is seen for the absolute beauty it is as it stands before us as raw and exposed as we before it. This is how our minds grow.
And in my husband, the lightness and excitement that swell inside him as I see him begin to peel off the burden of worn ties and expectations, walk away from this weighty load, and allow himself to rise up.
They are both more beautiful every day.
If I seek commitment, I see I have already found it. In my son, and in my husband. My boys. The greatest gifts of all.
We find the positive in our lives as plain as a fragrant rose on a thorny stem. It is easy. It is within us. We need only learn to look.
Looking at Finger Mesa
“The art of living does not consist of preserving and clinging to a particular mood of happiness, but in allowing happiness to change its form without being disappointed by the change; for happiness, like a child, must be allowed to grow up.”
Charles Langbridge Morgan
“Life is never stuck or static or stale, for each moment is ever-new and fresh. Every ending is a new point of beginning.”
L. Hay
“If nothing ever changed, there’d be no butterflies.”
Author Unknown
I believe I am ready to fly…
Above the ranch, along the road