In the few months since my epic re-location to the deep south I've managed to find work, find a roof over my head, scramble around the state like an ant on meth, and shake up the lives of the part of my family I had disregarded for so long. One could see these as noteworthy accomplishments or as nothing more than what is expected of one in a new place. However, the one thing I have not managed to do through periodic conversations is to impress upon you what I've been feeling here. Time seems so limited with a phone on your ear and I can never think through my words sufficiently to avoid worrying you or making it seem as if life is destitute in my new surroundings. You've always told me that you knew I was a survivor and that deeply grained instinct has served me well. But as the people around me are more interested in what's on TV than what troubles each others hearts, I have managed to find more time in my own head than I like to admit.
My job takes me on a nearly six hundred mile tour of rural Louisiana and some days my windshield is like an old drive-in movie screen where I get to view my thoughts. Other days it's the porthole of a sleek little ship showing me the passing waves of farmland, bayou, forest, and logging roads. And yet other days it's a briefly opened window into the lives of other drivers. Some days I see the same people which I had passed (or had passed me) the week before but they never recognize me. It only takes a short time to begin to feel like a ghost as I drift through the back woods.
For some time I expected the people here to be demonstrably different than back home. The people of the city so often have looks of self importance or dazed indifference to their surroundings. But mostly you see fear and distrust in the eyes of someone you meet on the streets of Denver. But after a few months here I haven't seen as much difference as I'd hoped. As I travel the roads from border to border I see so much anxiety and aggression. People who are hardwired on their daily existence with little thought to spare on anything else. And God help anyone who gets in their way as they scratch the bare necesities out of the earth or turn it out with a wrench. Gone are the leagues of white collar cubicle types who spend their days answering phones and developing brutal cases of carpal tunnel. More often than not any man you see between Monroe and Mansura has a melange of synthetic lubricants covering his clothes. Men and women alike bear the scars of manual labor on their hands and only those who subside on the taxpayers dollar know the meaning of manicure.
My eyes have sifted over more acreage in the last 3 months than in the twenty years previous and in all of that space I have yet to see a place where a person can walk for more than a few hours before trespassing on someone else's home acre. But the bright side is that there are a few places that remind me of the mountains even if only a little. Mile by mile I see more flowers in the field and more green in the trees. The animals which seem to have been hiding since I arrived are starting to appear more frequently and in greater numbers. Sometimes, as I drive, I get a glimpse of huge lakes full of cypress and reeds and hope soon to be able to explore those areas. Rivers run here and there offering the promise of unseen places and new adventure provided only that you have a boat.
Much of what I love of nature is here in unending supply. However, much is also lacking and the balance is precarious. When I look up I don't see the vast depth of a sky full of stars to remind me that I'm under God's eye. The breeze doesn't come to me bearing the scent of distant meadows. I never hear the wind thunder through valleys in the distance while standing in still air. There isn't the relief of a brisk chill at night to balance the heat of the day. I can't hear the call of the falcon or the inquisitive growl of a bear on another peak. I have no sense of communion with the land I live on and the uncontrollable joy which I felt at the coming of past spring seasons is absent here though spring is most definitely sprung.
What I still carry on my travels through the land of bayou, swamp, and mist is the hope of a more successful life, the anticipation of new friends, the goal of eventually returning to my beloved peaks and the intention of returning to the family I've always needed even when I was more needed somewhere else. In all things remember that no matter where God lays my path, it is the right path even when it takes me through places that are hard to tread and beyond that all path eventually lead home.
Your loving Son,
Bryan
Posts
