I stand naked
while emerald robed brothers
watch from afar.
My brittle skeleton
fractures in the wind
as dew drops like tears.
I once drank deeply
of secret springs
and warm summer rays.
Sweet memories
filled with fruitful seasons
echo from the hills.
But, time’s sand
trickled down
my mountain side
And left me here
to join with dust
and ancients in their sleep.
New River Gorge Forest
It drizzled all night. Clouds hugged the ground as morning’s first light awakened me. I’d grabbed a motel in Beckley, West Virginia while in route from Indiana to Virginia’s eastern shore. A full day of driving lay ahead, but a brochure from downstairs’ lobby wooed me, calling me to go see the nearby New River Bridge and the reputably beautiful New River Gorge with its raging whitewater. I’d always wanted to visit the area. Somehow I knew it held something special for me.
Once outside, I glanced at the thermometer dangling from my camera backpack. It read 53°. It’s July! How can it be this cold? For a moment my Floridian mind balked at going out so early. Backtracking a bit on I 64, I headed north on US 19 toward Lansing and the Canyon Rim Visitor Center. The bridge took me by surprise. Suddenly, I found myself crossing it while I nervously looked from side to side for some glimpse of the gorge. Too far down for me to see—I breathed a sign of relief. Arriving before 8:00 I found the National Park Service administered site closed. Walking around on the grounds I took a few shots of the lovely plantings in front of the center.
Then, off to the side I noticed a walkway. Alone, I descended the stairs wondering if I’d have the energy to climb back up.
Walkway to the Bridge
It wasn’t long before a hazy image of steel penetrated the mist.
Through the Mist
Step after step I descended until I reached the overlook. Stunned by the immensity of the bridge, I just stood there.
New River Bridge
Simon and Garfunkel’s classic played through my mind:
When you’re weary, feeling small
When tears are in your eyes,
I will dry them all
I’m on your side
When times get rough
And friends just can’t be found
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down
I stared into the gorge below. The water looked deceptively calm. Years ago I called myself “the bridge over troubled water”, all the while regretting the role I’d assumed. How very many times I’d laid me down. Family, friends; co-workers. Anger, deep wounds; broken relationships. Listen, counsel; mediate. It hurts to be a bridge. I wanted to help, needed to help, but somehow felt trod on—used. I’ll take your part—your pain …
New River
When you’re down and out
When you’re on the street
When evening falls so hard
I will comfort you
I’ll take your part
When darkness comes
And pain is all around
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down
Locals say that it used to take 45 minutes to cross the gorge. With the new bridge, erected in 1977, that changed to 45 seconds. The highest vehicular bridge in the Americas, and second highest in the world, it spans 1,700 feet of void. What does it take to cross the emptiness in the human heart? If you listen, life teaches you—a listening ear, empathy, compassion, and wisdom; sacrifice …
Sail on silver girl
Sail on by
Your time has come to shine
All your dreams are on their way
See how they shine
When you need a friend
I’m sailing right behind
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind
There in the fog I heard the quiet voice of Truth. This is your destiny. Don’t fight it; embrace it. Walking back up the stairs the beauty of the forest enveloped me. No more struggling, just the beautiful peace of acceptance. Friend. I turned the name over in my mind. Friend—bridge over troubled water—yes, this is my destiny.
Forest Peace
US 441
On a recent trip north from Florida to the Midwest, I took a break from hectic Interstate travel to meander through Great Smoky Mountains National Park on US 441. Stretching across multiple mountain ridges reaching up to 6,643 feet the trip from Cherokee, North Carolina to Gatlinburg, Tennessee is only 34 miles. Unfortunately, my tight schedule limited me to just one day in the park, but views from turnouts on the road afforded breathtaking views of this mountain paradise. Misty blue mountain crests nestled behind each other as far as my eye could see invoking a sense of wonder.
Smoky Mountain Vista
Opportunities for exploration awaited my curious eyes at each roadside trailhead. Everywhere brooks burbled over polished rocks and rushed to lower altitudes.
Smoky Mountain Stream
Along one trail a root spread out over a rocky obstacle in weathered beauty. I couldn’t help but reach down and trace its growth with my fingers. How long had it hugged the soil? What stories could it tell?
Rotund Root
Warm June days bring rosebay rhododendron bushes to bloom throughout the park. Their delicate pink tinged white blooms lure bees and eager photographers.
Rosebay Rhododendron Blooms
Rosebay Rhododendron Cluster
As I left the park, one little rocky pathway stuck in my memory. Its sheltered tunnel of branches and leaves still call me to investigate unknown forested mountain vistas, large and small. This appetizer from America’s most visited national park has only whetted my craving for the banquet that surely must follow.
Wooded Path
Morning Mist over Sugarbeets
Deep within me resides the longing to return to the land. I suppose growing up on ten acres in the Midwest planted those seeds. I have fond memories of digging my toes into cool freshly tilled soil and running unrestrained through rural vistas void of concrete obstacles. Transplanted by marriage from north to south; from country to city, and eventually suburbia, I gradually adapted to smaller spaces, but the fondness of good soil, the dependable turn of seasons, and the unbridled love of space never left.
Retired
This summer presented the opportunity to once again visit the land of my youth. There on my cousin’s farm, I grappled with a tiller as it tore up chunks of hardened sod and quack grass. Working side by side, I helped to clear her beloved memory garden. It sits apart, surrounded by fields under a tree where her son loved to camp. There the wind tussled our hair as we talked and sorted out the myriad of memories that it bore, some joyful and others too terrible to keep. She showed me how to divide clumps of miniature iris for the garden’s border. Then I dug little holes and planted two long rows of the leafy bulbs. Finally, we watered them in with jugs brought from the farm.
Delphiniums and Soybeans
One day’s labor cannot create a garden, but we made a start. I pray that the work shared on this little patch of ground will produce along with its tribute of flowers the fruit of comfort and healing in my cousin’s heart. For me, reconnecting with family and the land I so love should keep me for awhile—I think.
Day's Done
Recent Comments