It's a soft yellow-dressed afternoon and I find myself sitting. Just sitting. Here on this weather-worn wooden bridge, if you can even call it a bridge. There's something about these splintered slabs of old wood cascaded over this little stream that calls me back when I come to my hometown. The stream gets lower each time I visit, but you can still hear it trickle over the many rocks and pebbles below.
As I glance up, I am surrounded by earth and trees. Big, bold trees that say, "Hey! We've been here for who knows how many years and there's nothin' you can do about it! We are here to stay." Their leafy branches reach across the stream as they try to touch their tree lover on the other side. The sun peaks through the lover's embrace and the rays spill out over this green-brown earth, calling me back and grounding me to my roots.
I can see the flowers and gardens of the local neighbors that are so well tended and cared for, but I also see the wily and scraggly weeds and flowers unkempt by this bridge and broken earth. This place has been here for me as a safe-haven, a place to commune with nature, and speak with God. Here I can feel completely comfortable but also surprisingly vulnerable. It is many miles away this little heaven on Earth and several months since I've visited, but writing about it brings it here, close to my heart.
