Weekly Message from Rev. T. J.

Someday

When I was very young, my aunt and uncle lived with three of my cousins in Virginia. I was living in Connecticut then. We took a lot trips south down the highway to see my cousins, and it was a lot of fun. I learned a lot about obeying other peoples’ rules when you’re in their home. I learned a lot about sharing. And I learned a lot about Colonial Williamsburg…because it was nearby.

We also took time as a family to explore that part of the country. I remember late nights of traffic on the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, which might still be one of the longest bridges in the country. I remember the Blue Ridge Parkway, the scenic meandering roadway through ancient mountains, once taller than the Rocky Mountains, laid lower but stouter by time. I also remember horses.

On one trip to one of the surrounding areas—an island, I think—we traveled a two-lane road across a marshy field. The grass was tall on all sides of the lone road. As we drove we were stopped by a group of wild horses. They didn’t flag us down for directions. They were just there, out in the middle of the road, enjoying one another’s company. Honestly, even as I type this, I wonder if it was a dream, or if it was actually on a trip to a rural part of Texas, but where (or even if) it was doesn’t matter that much. We stopped.

There wasn’t anything more we could do. There was no way our sedan would make in through the grass to go around. No one in my family wanted to bother wild horses in the road, and besides, they were beautiful. Yes, they were majestic. Yes, their sinew and muscle was a wonder to behold. But it was their patience, their absolutely unflappable calm in the middle of the road that I remember the best, even if it was a dream.

Wendell Berry speaks of the peace of wild things in a famous poem. In the poem he reflects on the way that wild, untamable, unknowable things bring him some measure of calm. It’s a fine poem. My mustangs are different, though. They are not fixed above like stars, or floating on still waters like a bird. They are the wild that we can touch, that we wonder if we can shoo away so our sedan can keep journeying on its way.

I always wonder at what we call wild. Sometimes the word we are looking for is unpredictable. Sometimes we want to control or possess it. The apprehension in the moment before we try to change what is wild, though, holds something deep and old in our bones. I think it is a respect for the freedom in wild things. Two-lane highways, high grasses, and sedans cannot tell wild things where to go. Instead, the steeds swatting flies away, lolling in the sun warming the marshy land, speak with their silence. And we can almost hear them: “join us.” Maybe someday we will.