I took my self into the canyon alone for awhile this evening. The first time in a long time to feel her unfrozen mountain air in my lungs. Unlimited. Not fueling anyone else around me. I found a mist sky, purple petals in pocketed surprises at my feet, and a group of mule deer mommas with their babies. I found Spring between the canyon walls. A bare Creation picking up her first jewels for the first time in a long time - a shared rhythm. Senses cracked out from their bored and stuffy routine of a now familiar Winter. Creation masterful, every river swell a song to the Master Creator.
As we prep for our move back South, I find myself eyes closed, breath intentional, often. Pulling in the smells of the river, the mountains, the rocks, and evergreens, and then doing it again, and then yet one more time. A sense that I for some reason hope writes it’s pathways out in memory and story to somehow come even more alive in the South’s opposing landscapes and tales.
Oh how we are ready to work the small handful of acres in Southern soil we now get to call ours, but there are deposits of heart I am spreading around here yet, knowing that for brief moments and unplanned vacations they will call me back somehow. Here’s to the mountain mist rising, and the return back to woods of loblollies, glasses of lemon slices and sweet tea, and the stars falling on Alabama soon to be re-revealed.