All night the wind blew, shivering the trees, moaning around the house and outbuildings. Historic amounts of snow began to pile up. Small horses, chickens and cattle, tilted their heads, listening. Everyone seemed grateful and content to be out of the elements, nestled safe in stalls and coop.
As I lay awake in next mornings early dawn thoughts and images of a recent journey flitted through my consciousness. It was to one of the last great wildernesses that I'd traveled. A place where the imprint of humanity is much smaller than here. A place where most of the land remains prestine, remote, observant and waiting.
My younger sister lives there. At the end of the world, on a jut of land between inlet and bay. Mountains loom across the water. Cold, austere and strangely beautiful, they sweep up from sea to sky, their reflections littered with flotillas of broken ice. One wouldnt know that beneath them earth's hot blood boils, sometimes erupting from cone-shaped peaks which at present look so quiet and innocent.
That is the way of things though it seems. The unseen, the danger and unrest, the burning vitality of life just below what can be grasped by the ordinary senses. The wild pulse of hearts and natures ready to erupt, for better or worse.
I hadnt seen my sister for almost thirty years, virtually a lifetimes worth of experience and living. Divided by family disorders and loyalties, the distance appeared endless, insurmountable. Always though, just beneath the surface, was a faint ember of knowing. The inner whisperings of the heart singing, "Someday, somehow . . ."
Then it happened. The first tentative steps, then later, trust, sharing, and longer bolder strides. Until the distance was bridged, the past integrated, the long-journey nearly complete.
Tears flowed, laughter and joy warmed the space that'd once held the emptiness of lost comradery and love. Two sisters, two hearts, despite all odds, united.
As eagles watched, we walked arm in arm, along the rocky, windswept shores of the sea, and full circle into the present . . .