do not touch.

trains rock.
they really do. enough so that simple things like walking, drinking or writing are suddenly awkward... like you're a toddler again.

you go kind of fast. but not as fast as i would think it could (or should) go. fast enough, i suppose.
fast enough so that you see an awful lot of countryside as you pass by... but you cannot touch any of it. it's funny. it feels such an intimate thing with the landscape to travel it by train, and such an untouchable thing at the same time.

we pass people.
some men on a shipping dock at seven twenty five a.m., coffee in hand, smile and wave like they have forgotten they're all grown up. not waving at me, but waving at my world this hour... waving at this rocking train on which i'm trying to take a sip of my water.
later we pass a father and son by a creek... more avid waving... more big smiles.

we keep moving. beautiful mountains,
deep ravines,
quaint old train stations in little towns,
the horn blows,
the sunlight flickers on my paper and pen...
i get to see these places from such a unique vantage point...
i cannot touch any of it...

but somehow it touches me.

journey.

i got up before the sun
but today we shall travel together
the train horn in the distance
is to me a smile, a wink
we shall be together soon,
the train and i

on the train
on with coffee!
on with whispers to my God
of gratitude
of hope
of eternal things
of beauty
of loved ones
of love

the meandering through these mountains
seems to untangle things deep in my soul.

longing.

i am longing to dip my toes into a lake of the past. not my own past; but a past i have never known. a past consisting of golden light through old willow limbs, of hanging laundry, of tilling earth and of storing the harvest. a past of small white churches with bells that still ring out, of hard wooden pews and songs of glory sung.

things i long for the most in this Past are the light and the fields.

how odd; since these are the things which stand quite outside of past or present. none the less, i see the light as pouring forth in golden splendor, lighting the earth with a blazing intensity... and golden fields which stretch out, connecting the bottom of one green hill to the other.

i long to sit there, on the edge of a hill, by the willow, overlooking the field lit with fullest light... to watch the breeze bow low the heads of the wheat... beginning at one end of the field... and a quiet shush as it passes to the other end.

so then i ask what it is i think i want from this space? what is this longing made of?

pause.

glory. purity. holiness. quiet. peace.

what has He made? let me look only at that for a time, and nothing else.

i've sat out on the swing these beautiful mornings and read and written of him and to him. but each morning, and even through the days, i've heard him say "put that down... look out here..." and he points to the lines of the limbs of the mimosa tree through which i see the rolling curves of south mountain rise and fall. golden at the grassy base, then all different greens and blacks show me the curves of the woodland floor. the blue sky grows infinitely bluer as i follow it upward... and i see the moon, hiding with the thin clouds, leftover from the night before.

and he says "look at me... love me... please pause your reading and writing and moving... just look at me, and love me".

everything in me wants to do this.

so i long to step to another time and space so i could be free from things we've made.

things i've made.

things to be done.

but there is some holiness in those things too, i know.

but for today?

i shall only look.

and love.