Bench on the Edge of a Ravine

Despite today's melodramatic title, this entry is actually about a real bench on the edge of a ravine, and not just a metaphor. But since I'm a creature of habit, don't be surprised when it turns into a metaphorical bench in a few seconds.

Among one of my father's greatest ideas was to build a bench in the woods behind our house. It perched on a hill above a yawning crevasse. Seated there, you would immediately hear the world go silent. Whatever baggage you were carrying around in your head would leave you. And then it was just you and the ravine, staring back at one-another. I swear you could hear it breathe.

Don't misunderstand this as a horror story though; quite the opposite. The ravine was not an abyss; it's a hallowed place--something revered, like Mother Nature's belly-button. But still imbued with the savageness and timelessness of Nature.

You sit there, looking down into the shadows; looking across to the hill on the other side; at the trees clinging to the steep sides over the gulf-- and it begins to show you things: the insignificance of your worries, the natural course of your life, and the eventual conclusion of these events-- and for a brief moment you are at peace.




Why aren't you sleeping?