The Cure for Soul Knots

The knotted strings of my soul loosen with every turn that leads me away from the city. I know how to get there now without directions.

The mess of my soul untwists and unravels when I pass *Dr. Sprackens Drive. I giggle at the hick name, but long for the simpler time when it would have been commonplace. I envision the street's namesake as a spectacled man with a black medical bag, making house calls to check out little Billy Ray's strange rash.

I am even closer when I pass *Christ's Glory Baptist Church -home of the drive-thru crucifixion. "Come and see the brutal murder of our king from the comfort of your climate-controlled vehicle." Popcorn, anyone?

Turning into the park's drive is like coming home from a job you hate (I don't hate my job as mother, just the city). Stepping out of the car is stepping into my sanctuary. I am home. The actual physical feeling here can only be described as open. I feel like a space has opened up in my head, empty of fear and anger. In their place perspective and awe. These feelings don't take up as much room in my cavernous mind as the former occupants, but instead of feeling empty, I am whole. This is why I hike.


*Names have been changed to protect my family.

Spiny Secret

There are unexpected, hidden things everywhere we go. I walked past this unusual specimen on one of my hikes. I stared down at the thing a little repulsed at first, thinking someone had left their half-eaten grape in my pristine path. A quick scan of the surrounding area revealed several of these spotted, tortured grape-things strewn about like fruit confetti. By now I was puzzled and emboldened to poke one with a stick.

Upon shifting one around for a while I concluded that it was neither a grape nor was it a danger to my immediate health. So like any curious nature enthusiast I picked it up for a closer inspection. As you can see it is perfectly round and speckled like a ripening banana. When I turned it over I discovered a window to the inside of this mystery. I almost felt like it transported me to another universe, its tiny sun exploding its rays outward to the reaches. I know, I sound like a Star Trek nerd (no offense, Trekkies).

Normally the pod would have piqued my curiosity even more to the point where I would have dismantled it to ascertain its purpose. I didn't though. It may sound silly, but it felt like this inanimate pod was hiding a spiny secret. If it were ready to reveal its secret to the world it would have split open for all to see. Clearly, this pod-thing fell before its time. I didn't want to be the one to expose its vulnerable insides. I set it back down after photographing it, of course, and went on my way.

Why Do All Ice Cream Truck Drivers Have B.O. and Tooth Decay?

It creeps around neighborhoods promising over-priced sugary bliss and pours carnival-theme music through pitted speakers so loudly that the tinny notes bore through your head and take residence there for days. Everything about this ice cream truck screams, "run away!" From its rusted fenders which promise tetanus (or at the very least an infection), to the greasy man in a wife-beater who growls a greeting through his tooth.


Yet time and time again we send our trusting children out, gripping sweaty dollar bills and quarters in their grubby fists, telling them it's OK to buy perishable products from shady strangers. Should we be wary of the message we are sending? Or is this another case of judging a book by its cover?


I pondered this as I ate my popsicle stick-flavored fudge pop today (my husband does not have the same uneasiness about buying food from creepy people). I came to the conclusion that in the food industry there is no shame in judging a book by its cover!


Every good business person knows that in order to attract customers your place of business needs to be appealing and clean. Maybe this is why the ice cream pimps market to young children playing outside away from the scrutinizing eyes of their parents. Kids will take sweet stuff from anywhere! It could be covered in dirt and hair, but as long as it tastes sweet it's fair game.


It has to be a conspiracy!

Reflections on a Lone Flower

I took a walk in the woods today. And as I picked my way across the occasional strewn boulder or exposed root, I contemplated new beginnings and new life -and my life. I do this every spring. I know, cliche. Hardly the topic for riveting reading.

I looked for something in nature to express how I have been feeling lately. I pondered a stream that wandered through rocky banks and half-exposed trees. It gurgled contentedly at me and swirled a wayward leaf.

I paused and photograhed a bald, lanky tree that had fallen into a neighboring sapling, causing it to grow crookedly, accomodating the dead weight. The friction of tree-on-tree groaned at me with a passing breeze.

Then I noticed something in my path. I almost missed it, actually, almost stepped on it, crushing it with my size sevens. Upon further research I found it to be Houstonia serphyllifolia, otherwise known as Thymeleaf Bluet. This dainty wildflower is everywhere in the woods, but never alone. It always has the company of many others of its kind. Seeing a solitary bloom thrust through a carpet of moss caught my attention.

This miniature invasion to the worn footpath sums up nicely how I have been feeling of late. A unique creature, surrounded by a different species. Separated from others of its kind. Blown by the wind to an isolated location, left to thrive in a spot where it can be stepped on, kicked over, crushed by a wayward passerby.

I resisted the urge to claw into the moss and underlying soil to free it from its precarious location. Would my interference save the delicate bloom or cause its demise? Will the inevitable foot traffic snap the stem, cutting it off from its water supply? I told myself I was being rediculous, it's only one of thousands, an insignificant weed.

I trekked on, conflicted, but not looking back. In hindsite I should have saved it and transplanted it alongside its family. Maybe that would give my situation some hope, myself some anticipation of survival. But I am being rediculous. After all, I am no delicate flower.