Peace in my Place; Where has it gone?
As I’m writing, a leaf falls upon my paper. It whispered to me, “Fall is here.” The shadows that are cast down through the branches make chilling designs. The pond lays out in front of me like my art canvas, always clean and open to my ideas. Around the sides of the pond are a variety of flower and water plants. There are trees to one side, and a grassy field to the other. You can see ripples from the fish moving under the surface. I sit on a swing, built at the side of the pond. Flowers surround my head. Today, I have spread our pollen. The wind has turned and twisted it into patterns of intricate design. I come out here to express myself; to let my ideas pour onto the paper. The locusts’ songs are like an orchestra, melodically singing to me. The wind moving the leaves around on the ground sounds like children’s feet through the grass. This is my perfect place. All life is at peace.
It’s only my perfect place early in the morning though, as the birds are warming up for their songs. It’s not just because everything is waking up, or because the rising sun is sparkling on the drops of dew hanging on the grass. It is only perfect in the morning because the roaring of the motors has not yet begun. Just beyond my pond is a road, a well traveled highway, polluted with exhaust, trash and unconcerned people. Just beyond my pond is the horrid stench of man’s intrusion into my place.
I once had a fawn cautiously creep out from the wood line. It was early in the morning. The mist made him look like a shadow. He noticed me and I him. His glassy black eyes seemed to penetrate my soul. I felt I knew him. His white spots gleamed bright against the gingerbread brown of his coat. He came upon the pond and looked at his reflection in the water. The sun shone brightly off the water, illuminating his face. He drank for a few minutes and looked at me. The first of the motors could be heard in the distance, and soon one of them thundered by. He sprinted back to the wood line for shelter. No wonder they don’t come out during the day. They are scared. Writing is not the same with the screaming of the tires on the pavement. Before the highway came to be, I could write for hours on end. I would stay out in the sun all day long, sweating words out of my pores. The animals wert’ scared to come out then, neither were my thoughts.
I wonder what the world would be like if half of it was left alone. What if only half of the world were demolished, built upon, and polluted; what if the other half were left alone, to be free and peaceful? I would live there. I would sleep under the trees, in the fields. My thoughts could be free to flow onto the paper without distraction. The sun would burn down though my pen and engrave my ideas. The wing would blow my words to form great sentences and stories. My mind would be like a river in this place. Always rushing and flowing. I would glimmer in the bright sun. I would splash my wetness up onto the banks. The fish would race me over the rocks and under the rubble. I would be free to do what I pleased and go where my heart led me. I would be free. I would be free until I hit that wall. That dam, that won’t allow me to go further. I would be stuck, unable to move but only in that same thought. I wouldn’t be able to write freely anymore.
The pollution in our world today is unnecessary. People are more worried about when their new house is going to be ready, when their new office will be built. What happened to preserving nature? With out nature people cannot allow their creative juices to flow. They are too worried about the hustle and bustle of their daily lives. So I wait. I wait until the morning, when the roaring motors aren’t awake yet. I wait until the pollution has settled under the dew; when the sun is peaking its rays over the horizon. When the birds are warming up for their songs. I wait until peace has restored itself to my spot. My pond.
