Everywhere I’ve lived has had its own tempo. Truth is, until I took up residence on The Mountain, I’ve always been surrounded by other human habitation, close by, bringing the sights and sounds and smells of other lives into mine.
The slap of the daily paper as it lands on the porch. Grumble and fumes from the school bus. The weekly bang-and-clang of the trash truck. Hissing tires on pavement as commuters transport themselves to places they don’t want to be.
Car horns blaring. Rubber squealing and screeching.
The tinkling of wind chimes meant to mask it all.
I hiked back to White Rock early yesterday morning, sans Smudge. As I approached, this is what I saw:
My eyes were drawn not to the trail, but to sunlight illuminating trees at the far end of the clearing:
I sat down on a stump next to the idle fire pit and contemplated a different sort of cadence — this place, this season, this moment.
Nature is more symphony than drumbeat. It moves with swells of light and wind and water, harsh as well as beautiful, a rhythm of rightness that pays no heed to man’s pace.
And yet the natural world on The Mountain accommodates me. I strive to keep its time.
It offers, I receive. I take only what I need. It renews.
I looked over at firewood I’d stacked against a nearby tree.
I recalled the rhythmic ritual that created it.
My thoughts took a turn.
That modest woodpile is all me — dropped, bucked, split and stacked, like every stick of wood put up on The Mountain. The trail that brought me to the spot is the product of my work, like every other track and trail and path on The Mountain.
I can look anywhere on this patch of land and see the same thing, take the same pride and smile the same knowing smile. I did this. It was my labor, my sweat, my strain that carved out a home.
No one else can make that claim.
This is my paradise. This is my home. I step in time with the world around it.
Sam’s Throne Campground in the Ozark National Forest is 35 statute miles from here, in the Boston Mountains south of Harrison. This week it was the scene of one man’s unfortunate encounter with Nature.
The victim of this rare attack, 60 years old, can’t possibly have been unaware that beggar bears hanging around campgrounds are a problem waiting to happen.
Don’t be that guy.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable