A Special Place

You awaken to the trilling followed by the sweet song of an unknown bird, its melody strange and beautiful.  You remember that you are in your new home and that another chapter has begun in the book of your days.  Familiar furniture and many little curios from your past, recently and safely transported here, assure your ancient soul that beloved old treasures have not been abandoned but have now space, sunlight and largely blessed silence to commune with and share their own muteness with these rural hills and dales, their piney scents, majestic farmland, woods, brooks and other physiography reminders somehow of the world of our frontier forefathers.

Am quite mindful of the price and the rewards of self-reliance as it relates to this new abode and the surrounding countryside that demands it.  A city dweller may sing yearningly of the glories of "land, lotsa land!", but the current reality tests his honesty and his willingness to think clearly, with forethought and with a sound body to go with an uncluttered brain that must lucidly plan and positively stride forward without the luxury of moody wheel spinning encouraged too often by a discouraging, neurotic metropolis.  The old American genius for solving problems and all kinds of challenges has a fertile soil literally and atmospherically here in the heartland.  I want to be a part of it: the universe of American exceptionalism and the country of abundance that we can fully embrace and yet conserve, neither ravishing nor recoiling from its many offerings.

Space!  To open one's door and not be assaulted by the comings and goings of strangers hard by my threshold, the noise and exhaust of too many internal (and infernal) combustion engines, the screech of brakes, or the alarms and sirens of various devices and vehicles, the latters' honking horns a singular vexation to the spirit: oh, what rapture is the absence of these bombardments!  I look about and do not see another living being, especially an upright two-legged one.  How relieving, how comforting to a lone wolf whose sympathies lie chiefly with lambs.  My nearest neighbor's house is evidenced only by a thin wisp of dark gray smoke from his unseen chimney curling above the peak of the gently rolling hill in the left middle distance.  Beyond is a larger hill, a foothill of the mountains beyond that, all nearly enshrouded by wonderfully cool and clean smelling mist. Isolationism, of the non-political variety, how could it be a cause for alarm?  Yes, of course a lonesome twinge will eventually declare itself.  But for now, the gentle sound of rain on my slanted roof is an overwhelmingly gentle yet powerful reminder of man's ability, with God's help, to construct a physical expression of a haven for love that is dedicated to "keeping want and trouble out." It seems to reaffirm something deep in the race: "this is my place."