Reckoning

The sun gently caresses the trees with its glow of welcoming. The cool of the darkness succumbs to black becoming grey and pulling to focus the reality we have opened our eyes to. The earth breaths deep a fresh renewal and a consonant of song bursts forth in thanks ushering in the cycle of birth and death, light and sound; all in a seamless symphony that continues whether we're a willing participant or not.

As a child I found solitude in the forests where the canopies seem to enshroud me with protection from an often cruel world. I would venture from the trees and attempt to face my present circumstances only to return more jaded to the rocks and trees that still seemed to enjoy my company. I learned from them that silence is speech as well.

Thinking about my Shiloh, or place of peace, it occurred to me that I never hunted where I found peace. Even as a child, with mountain engrained in my being, I distinctly remember telling the animals there that my dad and me would not hunt them. I treasured their acceptance and playful curiosity. In short, I didn't shit were I ate.

The times that found me matching wits with one of Spirit's creations always brought with it a nervous, remorseful hesitancy. I was taught well and had a certain Franklin expectation to hit my mark. After the hunt I would always replay the final moments of painstakingly moving my rifle into position, releasing the safety, exhaling my breath half way holding until the final squeeze signifying an end to what was unaware of my presence. The rifle crack always seemed to rip through me like a knife slicing a Rembrandt. Guilt and regret morphed into the smell of sulfur and copper as the leaves settled and silence replaced life. I hated the stillness that followed as if Beauty, being betrayed, wanted to know why; I could never answer her. When we become the expectations of others that is not true to ourselves, we sacrifice that sacredness within only to be left with hollowness like that of a barren winter.

Coolness returns and the days are getting shorter. Instinct has me scanning the horizon and searching the forest floor for sign. More now than ever I feel like a guest in a sanctuary that had in the past been my saving grace. Once an intricate extension, I am now only a casual observer who is starting to forget the meanings of sounds, smells and signs. The middle of paradise has turned into the middle of nowhere.

It's said that you never hear the bullet that finds you. I'm starting to believe the validity of such a claim because I felt the impact of disenchantment ricocheting through me but I never heard the rifle's report. Suddenly, I am "other" and the "Need Not Apply" sign is hanging on the door. My cup is empty and I'm surrounded by shallow wells. I wish that still small voice would whisper my name if only to remind me that I am still here.

"But if the salt loses its saltiness, how can it be made salty again? It is no longer good for anything, except to be thrown out and trampled by men."