Seneca Lake. Motorcycle ride.

Close my eyes and let the roar of the wind buffet away the fears, the tears, and the fright of the future. I uncurl my fingers and open them, palm wide, into the flow of the air as it rushes past. I let it untangle all of the strands I’ve been clenching but cannot control.

Let it go.

Open my eyes and take it all in– the scenery as it passes, hurtling by, some film-reel landscape full of golden fields, brown in the autumn sun. And touching each hill, the first dusty colors of autumn.

I don’t know if it’s the hard week or the beauty that brings tears to my eyes.

There is hope in this.

We dip past farms with their half-dilapidated houses. Rush past boarded up businesses eaten away by vines and vegetation, returning to the land. Who tells their stories, I wonder. We putter down into towns who’s storefronts and buildings need another coat of paint or a pane of glass or a business owner. Who’s dreams line those crumbling shelves? I think.

Where have we gone? Where are we hiding? Who’s calling our names?

We burst from the restriction of 30 mph and explode into a landscape of cornfields and crops, trees and vast blue sky. The engine growls and purrs. Around us stretch power lines and guardrails, fields and homes–the evidence of gnarled and knobby hands willing to work, willing to bend, willing to believe.

Believe that there is something better than mindless days. Something better than just accepting what you’re given. I wish I could kiss those hands that have built instead of destroyed. Hands of every creed and color, who in past times and present have not been daunted by hostile ground, but with patience and perseverance have cleared the vines, repaired the ruptures, plowed the fields, and made what was broken whole again.

I unfurl my own soft fingers to the wind. And feel their spirit as we fly.