Wildflowers

The road rises up to meet him.  Didn't some say that once? Or was it a song?  He's not sure but he's beginning to understand.   Road trips are nothing new. He's been on his own for hours at a time going to a vacation, moving halfway across the country, or driving and meandering around his town.  This time it feels different. 

When he was growing up he'd spend a lot of time on his own, looking off to the horizon wondering what was out there.  What if he started walking, how would he survive out in the woods? He'd fantasize about the woods craft and survival skills he'd need.  Later he'd think about where the car would take him.  What if he'd get in and start driving West, or maybe North? Would he find a random town, be a busboy or find random work, or enough to buy some gas and food and move on. 

When the stresses of his job would plague him he'd daydream about leaving it all behind.  Cashing out his measly savings and running off to  foreign land, or remote island.  Live a simple life, full of long slow lazy days. 

One day it happened for him.  He threw off his shackles for a weekend.  Drove East after a random invitation drew him 4 hours away from his town.  He was on a new sort of adventure and the road opened wide with possibility before him.  He was leaving behind everything he knew.  Everything he was told was the "right" way of living fell behind him in the hot summer air as he flew down the road, hands out stretched with the wildflowers as his only company.  

Freedom

On Birmingham Sunday, a bomb rocked our world.

Freedom.

On Charleston Wednesday a man's gun tears us apart. 

Freedom.

On Black Friday our souls are torn asunder.

Freedom.

May our days of terror and violence be left behind. Traded for hands clasped in love.

Freedom.

Blustery Saturday

The dog whuffs and yips in her bed, asleep, lulled by the taps of rain on the air conditioner and window.  The smell of ozone tickles my nose and brings to mind a series of sense memories from my childhood and youth.  Sitting on the front stoop, walking  by a stream waiting for the rain to make it spill it's banks, smashing the volleyball across the yard over and over challenging nature and my frustrated hormonal teen years to try and beat me.  Back when I was indestructible. Today the rain patters a steady beat.  I call it a soaking rain.  Good for the crops. Even though it has been more than 25 years since I've lived in that small farming community my mind still think about the crops every time it rains. I was never a farmer but I understood why the cycle was important.  How delicate the balance was and yet how hearty the land and people could be.  

Today the city is washed anew.  Tomorrow rainbow flags will fly and folks across the nation will marry.  Feet will march and bodies will dance.  The celebration will be grand.  But for now, tonight, the fan will run nosily in the corner.  The light will be turned off and the dog will cleverly slip up onto the bed thinking no one will notice that she has curled up against my back.  Party goers will run for cabs and the subway, trying to stay warm during this surprisingly cold June rain.  And even here, far away from the fields, birds will seek shelter and ducks will swim through the inlet.  The grass and trees of the city will appreciate the soaking rain that come to refresh and renew.