A cold day down here below the Mason Dixon Line ,the skies are that shade of steely grey that predicts the onset of snow & ice across the Carolinas. The forests are dark , the ranch dogs are stealthy, and the horses just want to dance sideways in anticipation of a wide open run back to the warmth of the stable. But I guess my mind often wanders as we amble the leaf strewn paths of the Carolina forests. Sometime I am here and sometimes I am out there with my kindred spirits. Those of us who gulped strong coffee this morning, said the hell with yesterday’s manicure and anything in between that meant back to work on Monday. Yeah I will give it this, we are so connected yet so far apart. But I can pretty much guess all across this big old world, dogs were kicked off beds, soft blue jeans were pulled on, make up was an after thought, boots were laced and cars warmed. The smell of sawdust and straw, was the elixir we craved. The warm nicker of our counterparts in the dance of the decades, was music to our ears, soul rising, spirit cleansing and that all empowering essence that makes so many days bearable .
Yeah, I can see you now. Freckled face, red tendrils of hair peeking out from under your cap ,a big white quarter mare hackamore ridden , a sideways driven snow blowing across the Nebraska cornfields, but your face is in the wind, and the cornfields are lying fallow so daddy won’t mind if you chase magical dreams wide open to edge of the south forty. And you, with the long dark hair hanging about your shoulders, a muscular little appaloosa dancing between your legs, the Blackfoot flag tosses in the winds behind in the distance. Considering a run to jump the cattle catcher at the end of the road and hit the open country like your sisters before you? You know you will, you will breathe in their wild untamable spirits on that wide open country and yes, your resolve will be fortified. And there you are too, short bobbed blonde hair tossing about your shoulders, dampness permeating your clothes as you run your fingers through the long mane of the big black Tennessee walker. Hitting a lick and strolling amongst the ghosts of our history on southern trails decorated by Spanish moss laden trees as the blue heron in the marshes casts a side eye and acknowledges you as friend not foe. This I know, each of us , a some point pulled our mounts to stop , absorbed that between the ears view we all hold so sacred , took a deep breath, and let’s be honest ,we prayed to no one’s God in particular. But we sure as hell thanked the one that created all that we embraced on our myriad of journeys today. And to be honest, I think heartfelt thanks is rare in this odd dissociative time, so maybe God had a tear his eye and a bit of hope for us all, Hey God, your window holds some magnificent views! But as it is, the miles may be many, the terrain may be varied. But under this Moon , this Sun , this sky ,on this earth, we are one.
To the Sisters of Epona, I salute you! My spirit is your spirit, and as we light a candle after our days under the sky, inhale the sweet fragrance and relax in our baths, we are one upon the ether , we are one in the dreams that come in the night. May my Southern Tennessee Walker meet your Range bred Appaloosa and your prairie raised Quarter mare on the free ranges of our nighttime dreams, may we chase the winds, embrace the week to come, and know forever in our hearts that the connection falls beyond the realm of mortals and the weekend is soon to come. Ride it hard.