Here in
the forest along a rocky stream on the Natchez Trace Trail, I stand
pondering who might have passed here. How many might have stopped
and rested as I am now? Herds of Buffalo might have drank from the
crystal waters here on their journey to greener pastures long before
humans arrived on this continent. And the Chickasaw people who
resided in this land for thousands of years might have camped along
this stream on a hunting expedition.
Blotches
of lichen and moss cover the sandstone layers of rock jutting out of
the banks at oblique angles, rocks that were formed layer upon layer
on sandy shores for millions of years, 400 million years ago. And as
the land masses came together in the super continent of Pangaea, the
sand layers that were compacted into stone buckled and broke to form
these jagged upheavals of rock that now line the banks of this
stream.
I stand
alone here, alone as I have been most of my life, seeking a fleeting
peace that seems ever out of reach. It's not that no others are
around and interact with me, it's only that I can't seem to share my
inner most thoughts and feelings with anyone. I was naive in my
youth, thought all saw as I saw. Maybe for a brief period of time, I
shared the same vision with a few, but the connection faded with
time, like cataracts cloud the eyes.
Now,
here in this moment, I feel the presence of a soul who passed this
way once before me. One who left their spirit sandwiched in these
layers of stone, an old soul full of love and wisdom that sees the beauty in all
that surrounds us, one who shines bright rays of hope through this
dense forest canopy, rays that now glisten in this gentle stream. Oh
how I long to share this fleeting moment with that beautiful soul
now, and in the flesh. But alas, it is not my fate, and I will just
have to take what comfort I can in this ghostly visit.
