“The hills are draped in a wet snow, white against the brush strokes of black trees that follow the ground, in graceful arcs of falling, impassable terrain. Pulling into the uncertain, slushy slope of my future driveway & placing her in park, I push with my elbow, me, against the car door vs. that same old freight train wallop of mountain force. I can’t exactly define what rolls down off this particular ridge line but it’s almost scary in its ferocity and I feel it in my bones as a thing to be reckoned with. I say a quiet prayer amidst the roar, that going forward, this wild spirit will make friends with my home. You know, we who choose to live on precarious edges, it is a motley crew of miscreants and saints. And to this point, I often refer to the vision I had of being assigned to a remote outpost in the southwest, watching sunrises, sunsets, and for early signs of danger. In this capacity, tasked to identify marauders like ink blots forming on the horizon, I continue to function. Taking note of any and all trying to insinuate themselves without any legitimate, spiritual authority, onto our otherwise peaceful world. I do this and other spotters do it, as do clairvoyants & scouts. Alas, our world is too modernized and skewed to elevate the canaries in the coal mine to their proper status. But I’ll proceed according to my normal. For it is, my normal. Not the “new” normal, but a time-worn, time-tested normal, that tells us to never let go of what makes us human, despite all the nonsense. Sure, you can write letters to the powers that be, remind them to keep counsel with madmen and poets, but most likely, they’ll ignore you. Our parallel realities do not seem to cause them any perturbation. They continue to choose a prevailing narrative and ignore the bigger picture. Everyone opposing their views must be misguided. No explanation for the scores of extremely intelligent people with alternate facts! It’s easier to deny the naysayers. Chopping out a whole segment of brilliant thinkers, believers and truth seekers, keeps their story in line. Yet I’ve put in my hours. Driven many times, the same roads, with complete devotion. In reverence, in humility, in anger. Through the same darkened towns, usually so vibrant, that have caved in to the constant pounding. The villages shamed into submission, as families sequester in fear, according to what they’ve been told. Still allowed to string Christmas lights however, and in this one thing, each expression of humanity shines through with unbridled personality. Time will eventually reveal who’s been speaking God’s truth, because, Sorry, there is something called right and wrong. On the east side of one gap, trail heads are quiet. The rivers run under green ice, still clocking countless miles. I’d walk them all, every day, if my body & soul could render such fortitude. Freedom had a good run in Vermont. I can still make my way along the First Branch, the White River and the Mad River on my own time, in my own car. Anonymous, thinking my own thoughts. I wish all of you a Merry Christmas! A toast to what Vermont stands for, and that we may as a free people hold fast to our sovereignty, and defend our right to remain wild.”
