Bits of Salvation

I took a walk up the mountain to cleanse myself. It seemed right. The exhaust and the noise - the sins of the day - were what I needed absolution from. Building garden beds seems good, but when I unleash the saw on the world, spewing pollutants and sound into the air, for the sake of expedience, I wonder.

So, off I go on a hike, out my door, trying to walk softly.

I suppose there is ever a balance, and thinking about removing my mark from the land can go too far.

Perhaps the church exists because of the sinner. Without one, there wouldn't be the other. The world would be less without both. A mono-culture of stagnation.

Reaching the top, wiping the sweat from my brow, I can still smell the odor of the two-stroke, see the bar and chain oil along with the cedar sawdust on my hands.

The snare drum percussion of the northern flicker paired with the odd bass of the ruffed grouse, accompanied by loons and geese in the distance, start to dampen the ringing in my ears.

On the walk down I chew on sin and salvation; one does not happen without the other. I am left with the idea that acknowledging that I leave a mark, we all do, is a start. Doing things to minimize it are helpful, but that leaving no mark at all is impossible. So I'll continue to wind my way along and confess my sins to the ramps I pick and the trout I catch.