A Weightless Trailhead

More about A Weightless Trailhead

Panoplies of possibilities confound my simple life.

Now I feel the warmth, sort of like if you could feel indigo burn.

How did this come to pass? Well, I reckon the what of it all is a tale that has yet to unfold, and the how is only as honest as the hat who’s telling it.

A campfire story? No, a tale from yonder, where the canyon met the river.
I don’t cast no villain as a hero, no witness to a sin of a saint.

Let me tell you about the day a man came to realize no mask is worth its weight.

The canyon grew narrow, the sort where carrion gathers. A man who takes after yours truly rode Handsome. Why, thank you but Handsome was the name of his steed. He was looking for a route through the narrows. You see, he was lost, and while fishing and hunting kept him fed, he had a bellyache for something more.

He couldn’t value treasure like them other folks. You see, many found solace in a fancy spread. Warm meals were nice; this much couldn’t be denied. But freedom has a price, and for many years he happily paid it.

As luck would have it, the canyon’s end and a warm cup were both close at hand. Treasure comes in many forms, you see. He was to find his just as the narrows opened onto a bit of flat land beneath Handsome’s shoes. Here he found a wagon with a kettle set to brew. He approached but found no person near. As he pondered the peculiarity, a “Howdy there” landed upon his ears.

Well, who was it? A stranger, to be sure, although as far as strangers go, she was soft on the eyes. He answered with a nod.

Then he spoke. “Why, I don’t mean to interrupt your chores. I couldn’t help but notice the scent of a fresh brew coming from that kettle.”

Happily these two shared conversation, and a cup of brew. Then his boots got restless, yet his thoughts felt as if they’d begun to thaw. It was a strange feeling. In conversation, she spoke about the river how its surface was a calming sight, how little it revealed of the currents underneath. She told him how there could be beauty in change, in becoming. Her words found a place with him. There’s wisdom in that, he thought. Sometimes there’s courage in being still.

He thanked her for the cup and told her he hoped there would be more to come.

He made his way toward the ridgeline and settled into camp not far off. As the glow of the fire warmed him, he realized a simple truth: a man only understands freedom through the paths he’s taken and those who have crossed his.

Each trail has its head. Each a decision to become, or wear a mask of pretend. You see, it isn’t so easy to know when the hat you’re wearing doesn’t suit you. Time has a way of sorting you out. Only if you listen, only if you’re still.

Maybe freedom is a warm meal and a soft gaze? Sometimes choosing another trail lets you feel the weight you’ve been holding.

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Aaron