The hills are calling to me more and more in the last few weeks. Work, a crazy economy, terrible gas prices and Wall Street making folks crazy have kept me away far too long. I have been an indentured servant to the needs of the job and my heart flutters with grieving as I drive past fields or waiting corn, meadows full of deer grazing on dying grasses. When I see birds gathering for their southern journey, I dream of the hills of home, of my little cabin in the woods, of the oranges, reds and yellows of tall oaks, hickory and maple trees.
Soon and very soon I shall escape, without telling anyone, without a word of warning, I will slip out quietly and run home again, to the mountain I love, to my muse, my solice, my quiet place.
I dream of sitting on my porch with a big ol' glass of sweet tea, maybe my harmonica in my pocket and a dulcimer on my lap. Maybe I'll play a tune or two or maybe I'll just sit and listen to the whisper of the woods, calling to me through the evening as twilight sneaks up on me, finding myself in the night before I am ready to give over the day to sleep.
I will dream of the trees, of the rocks and ridges that call to me, that sing a love song in the night, that lull me to sleep.
I will awaken refreshed and glad. Morning with dance with me in the dew laden grass and we shall wrap our arms around the day, morning and I. We will dance and the birds will sing our joy at being home once again.
That is where my heart is. They say that when the last queen of Hawaii died, she had her heart removed and buried secretly while her body went through the dignities of a Western Culture funeral.
Maybe she had it right.
Wherever my body shall rest, my heart shall dance in the wet dew with the morning for eternity.
