Wild places call to me.

Places filled with grass and trees that need neither watered nor trimmed, but are cared for by nature’s wisdom, compel me to abandon my own care and grooming and join in a timeless day of sheer existence.

It is very square where I am.

The gridwork of streets and houses, the surveyed, plotted, platted, and marked boundaries of every square inch of my world is punctuated by carefully compassed curves of flower beds and city parks.
Where is the Randomness of boulder-strewn dry wash?

Where is the strategic invasion of tiny wildflowers in the edge of underbrush?

Where is the absence of domesticity?

Wild places call to me.

Deep woods.

Shallow rivers.

Barren peaks.

Big Silence there will mute the myriad voices in my mind that scream and whine for my fragmented attention.

The rugged and jagged will brush away the orderly cubes among which I live.

The dictatorial hands of the clock that portion out my life in minute, exact segments will be broken. They can move forward, backward, or not at all.

I’ve lost some of me. The man in the mirror has a hollowness about him, reflecting the pale and air conditioned world in which I live.

Where is the core?

Where is the vitality?

Where is the shining gleam?

Out there somewhere.

Wild places call to me.