On a walk beyond borders I observed wonders unknown.
Along the path were feather-shaped leaves that had fallen beneath the tall, smooth trees: memoirs of mythical birds traveling past from mythical lands.
Sprinkled about were tiny, glittering transparent flecks: Star flakes, fossilized bubbles, mermaid scales, or faerie skin.
Loyally beside the trail lived a stream long asleep. Further along – past stretches of light, past canopies of shadow, past a moss covered sanctuary carpeted with thick fern – the stream awakened into a thunderous waterfall.
The place of death, the place of life; silent and musical; tranquil and playful; constant and ever-changing, home of deepest sadness and highest joy.
I heard music composed of sweetest notes. An ageless song played by massive creaking trees; Birds sing an expressive, lyricless melody; Cascading water leads the crescendo.
Long beams of golden sun glint off of blue flitting dragonflies and lazily floating butterflies of every color and pattern.
The smell of cold, wet dirt; of countless sweet flowers: the smell of the earth seeps in through the skin.
Here life is discovered.
There are so many things I long to write about. Things that inspire explosions of poetic thoughts and surging wonder. But, as I have found before, some things are simply indescribable. Some things exist in a wordless dimension. I wonder if memory can capture the splendor? How can I describe the height of the smooth-barked trees against a blue-blue sky? Or the old farmers all dressed in black going about their work with ease, though technically they should be considered far past retirement age? How can I explain how humorous the Pritchards are when they return home at night, as they walk in their door “PSH–PSH–PCKYOW”ing to keep Friday inside? How could I describe the silent antiquity of the river with its stone steps and its cold, clear water? How can I explain the wondrous rain that falls more like snowflakes than raindrops? How could I bring anyone to understand how the old stone buildings in all of their decay: with roofs caving in and flowers growing from the cracks, fill me with speechless awe? Can I get across the absolute comfort with which I am filled at the sight of the windmills? Can words describe the violent wind on the mountains as I gaze at aqua colored oceans? Would anyone be able to feel God as I do, when I sit on my windowsill, admiring the mountains topped with windmills silhouetted against a yellow-to-blue sky, spattered with luminescent pink and purple clouds? As I watch all of this fade into absolute black offset by tiny specks of glowing white? Do any of these words cause marvel to equal the original sight, smell, sound, feel, emotion, the actual experience?