Beyond the surface

Beyond the surface
Dragonflies, big and blue and about the size of hummingbirds
But mute, mysterious, and yet somehow, more real.
There are no red plastic feeders here
Wild and silent and shimmering in the otherwise flat grey light of dawn
Leaving big ripples on the still forest pool
Perfect circles expanding
A bull’s-eye.
It is different here
New and as such, slightly odd.

We are camping beside a large pond with cattails taller than the camper on our truck and lily pads the size of dinner plates skirting the edges. Earlier this morning the largest bull moose I ever saw splashed in through these lilies and swam to the other side, his huge and heavy rack held above the black silk surface in the haze of first light like a burdensome and looming ship crossing a medieval mote.

At our camp site is trash, always an unwelcome site. Local trash. Tell tale signs of broken beer bottles, cigarette butts, shotgun shells and business cards from a shop in the nearest town about a half hour down the mountain. Little pride in their beautiful land. I’ve never understood that. Does it form from a sense of helplessness or ignorance? In any case, I call it a bad sign.

I am looking for signs. Signs that tell me “this is the place.” Home. I’m not finding it and it’s somewhat scary since I am committed to make this move and soon, yet have not figure where this move will take me. And depressing because I keep hoping to find it clear and simple, “Eureka!” there it is, and am disappointed each day as I sit in the back seat of the pickup and look out the side window at the landscape rushing by, hoping something there will call me, tell me I belong here. But I hear nothing beside the rush of the motor and the blaring music of my son and the regular outbursts of silly humor of the three of us telling jokes and stories in our funny and familiar way.

I lose faith in myself and wish I had faith in higher powers. But higher powers haven’t got me where I am. Hard work and a strong sense of daring have. I have no blind faith. My eyes are wide open. I know that will upset some to read. The same few who might admire my life and keep praying to live where and how I have lived. I would like to believe prayers will get you as far as grit but haven’t seen this first hand.

Funny though that I still keep praying, asking for a sign, asking to be put where I belong and do what I can to best serve this beautiful world.

And the truck rumbles on, and another day passes as fast as the view outside the side window, and in a blur I remember the answer but it’s not as clear and comforting as I wish it were.

Make it happen. There is no red carpet laid out for the journey of life. Weave it as you go along. And weave it yourself. All the velvety red ribbon is already inside you. It’s not the place; it is you. All you need to do is get to work and weave the path yourself. Believe in yourself. I’ve heard those words before.

There’s more to it than that. I’m listening for the answers. But I’m learning to listen within.