Yesterday, I exuberantly headed into the hills with hopes of being energized and renewed while serenaded by bird song.
I soon realized it was too cold even for the birds to flutter, fly, and chatter.
I would have to depend on the visual and physical efforts for the desired energy boost.
A misty wisp of a ribbon-cloud slid through distant hills. At the canyon opening, a bed of clouds hovered between two mountains--as if a person making the bed had lifted a blanket with both arms and had let it settle. I was invigorated indeed. And then I became aware of the sounds that would accompany me on today's walk.
An airplane overhead. The distant hum of car traffic below. Rapid gunfire, so close, I thought to take cover. It had to be coming from the shooting range across the canyon and the echo made it seem closer. But it took me back to two occassions. On this same trail, a month earlier, two men with powerful, intimidating rifles walked towards me. What country was I in? What war was being waged?
It was hunting season. I vowed to stay on the trail that day.
Weeks later, I was off-trail, seeking adventure extraordinaire. While climbing over hills and small valleys, while weaving on deer trails through scrub oak, I wondered if hunting season was still in effect. Did I blend in with the surroundings? My coat was soft gold and I panicked how well I blended into the fall leaves. I took off my coat and my bright, dark red shirt. I put on the coat and slipped the bright red shirt to the outside layer. I had some protection.
As I rounded one of the last bends before reaching the hill beneath my home, the gunfire started again. Only this time I could see the source. Several police cars were lined up at the officer's shooting range. This time it WAS close. But never-before-seen, was a shooting range above the shooting range, and I could see a shooter at the top of the hill.
I turned around to see if the bullets were hitting the dirt behind me, for the man at the top of the hill, the rifle clearly in his outstretched arms was menacing. Since he was above the police shooting range, was he really a policeman? Was I going to be part of a tragic news story?
Yet, at the core of logic, I knew I was safe. I had come as close as I had ever wanted to be, to danger. And it was all imagined.
What a blessed life it is to be safe.
At the end of the walk, it had warmed enough for one bird to fly past my side.
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