I love Vimeo... I often find the coolest stuff.
To clarify, this is 'moderate cool', but there are always gems in the feed... Random stories from life that are small but unexpectedly sweet. Just like an arbitrary knock on the door when your neighbor unexpectedly delivers a slice of homemade cherry pie.
Moments in time. Here, then gone...
We all have journeys. Even the most conventional humans with all their domesticated propriety acquiesce to the occasional walkabout.
The night rider, lost in thought on a desert highway, muscling thru early hours on a Harley under a million stars.
The Soldier holding onto a strap, looking at the ground below from a helo, a wide museum diorama of soft blinking lights of small villages spread out below, thinking about home.
The waitress, leaned against a pole out back by the dumpster, smoking a cigarette and staring at the moon. The moon glows like a luminescent Cave fish deep underground, and in her tired mind and aching feet, she feels a connection.
Even her several steps to the dark alley, she feels miles away. She is liberated a moment from impatient looks and fingers snapping.
I've heard that deep below the heavy earth, rivers flow, carve a path through dark dampness and granite rock. A mile down, rushing water polishes stones, even though no one is there to see it. A hidden river runs just as well as those beneath the sky and trees. Water is water. It just flows.
So. Journeys, rivers, wanderers, and trees.
Let's end this reverie with forest.
Somehow, it's comforting for me to consider that for every tree that falls in the forest without a witness, 10,000 more stand to greet the morning sun. And perhaps, that one and daring hiker's eyes who dared to climb the mountain through the night.
We all have journeys. But I think the most important part of a journey is the coming home, just like Thomas Wolfe wrote,
". . . of wandering for ever and the earth again . . . of seed-time, bloom, and the mellow-dropping harvest. And of the big flowers, the rich flowers, the strange unknown flowers. Where shall the weary rest? When shall the lonely of heart come home? What doors are open for the wanderer? And which of us shall find his father, know his face, and in what place, and in what time, and in what land?"
In those long nights and tired feet, the hot winds and cold rain, we find our meaning by our final coming home.
I still dream, but I'm not restless anymore.
Cheers everyone, goodnight!
Good night, Mike; it's morning for me, and a good one too, with this poem of yours.
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