A Hundred Miles to the Sea

The sky is gray-white, peeking between leaves turning from their Summer green to gold and russet.  The steady raindrops fall from leaf to leaf; from tree to tree; seeping, finally into the waterlogged floor under my feet.  These waters gently cascade like a fountain, stirring the spirit to relaxation. Somewhere beneath the earth streams are flowing and escaping by way of springs, taking these very droplets to the nearest rivulet, on to stream and brook; then a mighty river carries them a hundred miles to the sea.  I wonder how many raindrops have gathered to create this ribbon of water flowing past my shoes.  A tiny river, it falls over broken shards of stone as if, to that ant, it were cascading waterfalls roaring down a mountain pass.

A rock affords itself, appearing from under a cropping of ferns.  The damp surface and mossy face send up a scent that hangs heavy in the air.  Our name is written beneath this very stone; beneath the many rocks that are buried deep in this land.  Perhaps here is where my grandfather paused; taking his rest from the heavy weight of the axe.  My young mother crouched, waiting for the cows to finish getting refreshment from the nearby brook on their return trip to the barn as the late afternoon sun sank behind the trees.   The stones that lay about are the offspring of others that unearthed in long-forgotten days.  These now rest; piled in a staggering line that runs the entire length of the property.  The walls remain; a testimonial to long-forgotten days.

These large trees were only saplings then.  Their bark scarred by barbed wire and even a granite post can be seen growing from the side of some.  If we could hear their voices, the story would thrill and reveal more rich history than has already been handed down to us.  We would know of the cow that bore her young in this cove of evergreens; or of the hay wagon that overturned on that embankment.  They might tell of children who were camped here, in a temporary attempt at leaving the warmth of their own homes.

I step into a wide opening and stand before a small stone memorial of a tiny baby who's body was laid to rest here.   This has been kept clear; as a sanctuary among the heavy tree-cover.  Its contrast to the dark woods makes one think that they are in a wide open field.  The sun streams down and lights the spot.  I suppose that is why this special family member has kept it so.   There are no marking on the stone; no name or date etched into its surface but being here, one knows that it is a place set apart.   I love to come here and see the large opening to the sky, so far above; and to think of the life of this little one who never saw the light of day on earth, but knows the glory of heaven.

It is quieter  now; only the steady raindrops fall from leaf to leaf; from tree to tree...eventually a mighty river carries them a hundred miles, to the sea.