The sure, solid ground so long taken for granted rumbles, fractures and the context of my world shifts. Simple pleasures that once brought tranquility and joy become insurmountable; a wall of false security carefully built around the cracked foundation to hold it in place begins to hold me in place, captive, immobile.
Acres have been cleared in our quiet neighborhood and wildlife is scrambling to find new territory. Coyote sightings have become common place; spotted mid-afternoon, ambling calmly down the sidewalk in the front, stopping to forage on a neighbor's pyracantha, hunting small mammals in the greenbelt behind the house and often heard celebrating their kill in the early morning hours.
I don't begrudge them their need to survive but if I'm being honest, the possibility of coming upon a pack of them unnerves me. No, terrifies me. To the point that I've quit walking the trails. I love the trails. I've become afraid of the trails.
An unseasonably cold afternoon found me longing for a solitary walk. I made my way out the back gate and up the trail.
It doesn't seem like much, this simple act of opening the back gate and putting one foot in front of the other but it was a step in obedience.
A step toward the certainty that the ground will forever be shifting and it will sometimes crack and throw my balance; a step toward seeing the possibility of discovering goodness and light in shifting ground and another toward the tranquility and joy found again in simple pleasures.
