Can one be too alive,
so buzzing with life force that numbing the spark is a neccesary survival strategy?
How does one harvest that much energy,
with no audience,
rooted too firmly in place?
I fear that I shall leave no wake in passing, but slip silent beneath the waters of life.
How often do others think to remember Fred or Rob or Mike?
What can we do to honor their lives, their memories? What lessons in which to partake?
• Remember those who have gone.
• Treasure those who have not.
These are the important pieces of your life beyond your skin that connect directly to your soul.
These are the extensions of life worth living.
"No time, but there is no time," you cry.
So it may seem, but there will be time enough when time passes to haunt you until the end of your days.
Ice fountains drape the trailside ledged, gripping stone as if to hang on 'til June. And, perhaps in some dark wood, they shall.
The air is alive with the rush of wind in pines, filling the wood with the rush of a distant sea and the creak of a tall ship under sail.
Somewhere, unseen, water moves, drips, and rings like chimes in a deep groto.
In prelude to mud season, warm air moves over snow-laden topography - the unique mountain spring weather of teeshirts and winter boots, four-wheel drive and open windows.
With cold nights and warm days, maple trees stand waiting for the first taps of the season. Snowshoes and high taps this year, buckets placed bottom to snow lest they be too high to tip at season's end.
And soon shall be star-filled nights at the boiler, with woodcocks whistling in the darkened skies.
Spring is here. And THIS is spring in the Adirondacks.
What HAS happened to the "Adi-round-dacker," the pure-blood sons & daughters of those who made this place their working home? Displaced by the landed gentry; rejected by those they once served as too stupid to do what is right. I hold no romantic ideal that they were true stewards of this land. But who are the stewards now?
As mud season oozes onto the land & waters of this mountain plateau, whose footprints shall reveal the true path? And whose shall be just fleeting prints of exploitation?
Many claim these mountains & waters as the home of their heart. What is the value in that, being kept as a recreational toy to be taken out when time allows and remembered only as fond memories of a place visited?
This is the state of our natural world. An ecotourism play park.
(he says as he sits parked in his SUV at South Creek - but at least I, unlike many, generally require this vehicle as a means of my livlihood)
Dark thoughts for a bright, warm morning.
Is it music, my soul?
Is it to define thw grace of God?
Is it a vision I could ever share?
So few have known me, understood me. Not the one whose heart & soul was bound to mine under the ritual of matrimony. But there are the few to whom, like the tide & moon, I am inextricably linked across mpossible distance, perhaps never to part.
Just me, the moon, and the trees
await the sliver hint of day break,
perhaps an hour hence.
The mountains fading in my rearview mirror as the sky finally breaks.
Downstate flatlands may be where my fortunes lie
but it is among those hills where my heart comes alive.
Comes alive yet longs to walk with you
on the shores of the big water.
Ocean-black clouds stretch aceoss a steel blue-grey sky;
sooner thqn expected,
as I descend into Keene Valley.
The Adirondack Mountains shall have their farewell after all.
from "Atlas Shrugged" by Ayn Rand