There are moments where I yearn to lose myself in the trees of Tennessee. Instances when a drive down a side road -- shortcut home -- has me contemplating what it would be like to just start walking in any direction, pushing through underbrush, one foot in front of the other for long stretches of time. The azure sky above. The solid ground below. The bright redbirds darting from one perch to another, courting their mates with song, competing with the plump little bluebirds which rise and fall with their melodies. Snakes, frogs, and the blue-striped lizards making the odd appearance somewhere in the vicinity of my feet. Perhaps I might take a rest on a lip of rock jutting from an overgrown embankment. Listen to the enveloping absence of suburban sounds and see the encompassing invisibility of suburban sights.
At some point in the walkabout, an open meadow, the perpetual field of undulating green heralded in any number of excellent stories, will appear on the horizon. An unexpected delight revealing itself between the closely growing evergreens and tall slender pin oaks. I will step out from the lower spreading canopy of redbuds and dogwoods which are leggier and willowy because of the shade. Beneath my shoes, grasses yield to the imprint of Nikes or Avias eager to get on with it. As I progress, the knee-high sea closes behind me, my trail barely discernible to the naked eye. Now, the sun may have its way with me. Wash over me. Beat down on my head and shoulders if it must. Its golden light makes the seedheads of the field appear to almost twinkle. There will be a good mile of losing myself in this expanse. The denizens of this meadow are more aware of me, tromping atop their homes, than I am of them, hidden in their perfect cover. We leave one another alone. But I am filled with gratitude to know they exist in numbers uncounted by modern man. This is their neighborhood. Their front and back yards. Their park and grocery store and school.
This one woman has no desire to raze their village. Disrupt the apple cart. Leave a mark touting her superior presence. I only want to escape the concrete cage of my existence for a mere blip of time. My desire is immerse this one body and mind, this single soul, in a place where no clock or iPhone or laptop or calendar directs my minutes and hours and days. Here is where closeness to my Maker is easiest for me. He placed at my core this longing, this love, this familiarity with His natural world. This is worship at its simplest. Most basic. Easiest. These places are forever filled with song and praise. They trumpet as to the aspects of His glory. Leaves brush the heavens with delight. The babbling brook continually speaks of a God in fluid motion beyond the mechanization of the men and women He created. The sheer number of vines and bough and every green and flowering thing displays His creativity. Gently rolling hills speak to His divine and unending grace. Everywhere His virtues abound beyond measure.
This is an entire outing flashing across the screen of my mind as I make my way through a short section of countryside before pulling into my 1/3 acre lot, 2-car garage, 3 1/2 bath, formal dining room, 5 bedroom, one bonus room, and beautiful central kitchen house. My slice of the pie. No chickens or goats. No old farmhouse or field of sunflowers. But yes to a hundred year-old elm in the back. Yes to tomatoes and okra and bronze fennel. Yes to varied hydrangeas and my own thickly growing red buds and dogwood. Within that blip, I crossed the sub-conscious chasm which separates man from God and partook of life-affirming fellowship.
I am sustained for the remainder of this day. Where, pray tell, will I walk tomorrow?
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