Seasons and Horizons

I thought about going to work this weekend.

There were things I could have done, things I could have moved forward before Monday. I knew they were waiting.

Instead, I chose Skyline Drive.

Over the weekend, I drove more than 400 miles. Some of those miles were spent getting there and back, and some were spent winding through the Blue Ridge Mountains, stopping to look, taking pictures, and finding out what was around the next bend.

It was a lot of driving. At least eight hours altogether, I would guess. But I was enjoying myself. I was seeing places I hadn’t seen before.

The leaves were changing, though unevenly. Some stretches still looked green, while other trees had already turned. Along the roads beyond the park were farms, vineyards, old houses, and signs pointing toward battlefields I would like to visit someday.

I couldn’t stop at everything. It was enough to discover that those places were there.

Yesterday’s visit made me want to return. Today, I went back to Rapidan Camp.

Walking among the remaining buildings, I tried to picture what the place had been like when President Hoover and his wife stayed there. There was water nearby, and a little waterway with small waterfalls that caught my attention. I imagined sitting by the house, listening to it.

I could understand wanting to spend time there.

Earlier that morning, before I left the hotel, I had been remembering another peaceful stretch of my life.

After I was laid off last year, I would still wake up early. My body was accustomed to getting up for work. But sometimes I could remind myself that I had time to sleep a little longer. There was no immediate demand pulling me out of bed.

I stayed busy during those days. I exercised and stretched. I made repairs, mowed, cleaned up, and cut wood. I listened to Scripture while I worked. There was plenty to do, and I felt a peace that I still remember.

This morning brought some of that back to mind.

I listened to the Sermon on the Mount. Later, I took care of some things around the hotel, got my time turned in, and gathered what I needed for the hike. I left a few things unfinished.

The clothes would still be there when I returned.

So would Monday’s work.

I know myself well enough to recognize how easily an open day can fill up. There is always another task I could finish, another responsibility I could get ahead of, another reason to put off going somewhere.

This weekend, I went.

I hiked, talked with people along the way, and took more pictures and videos than I know what to do with yet. I followed unfamiliar roads and recognized a few I had traveled the day before. Little by little, a place that had been mostly names on a map began to feel more familiar.

There were frustrating drivers and moments when I wasn’t sure which road I was on. It wasn’t all quiet overlooks and peaceful trails.

But it was a good weekend.

I’m grateful for the weather that made it possible, for the strength to walk, and for the chance to enjoy this part of the country while I’m here. I don’t know how many more weekends I’ll have nearby, or what the weather will be like when another opportunity comes.

I’m glad I took this one.

When I get back, there will be laundry to finish and things to prepare for the week. Tomorrow, I’ll return to the work waiting for me.

Tonight, I’ll also have the memory of water flowing beside an old retreat in the mountains—and the quiet pleasure of knowing I gave myself time to go.