Cottonwood Lane

I've been having a lovely vacation at home in Idaho these past weeks. And it's even better, now that Brian is with us! I have lots to write about our trippings and lots of pictures of all our outings and innings.... just hang tight, they're coming, okay? (I'm sure you feel the suspense!)

That said, I'm taking a little detour here tonight. I've decided this is a good night to put up a bit of a journal entry I wrote last week, while I was at my parents' house. It has a bit of a melancholy tone -- something that comes and goes with me. (It's gone now.) I guess I just like to remember some sentimental things sometimes, and thought I'd share. So, here's my trip down memory lane, er, actually, it's called Cottonwood Lane...

I'm sitting in my car down Cottonwood Lane tonight, watching the sun set from the top of the canal bank. There's a new home across the road, on the other side of the canal. But it's not so new -- a grove of trees is growing up fast around it, providing plenty of shade and even some privacy. Other than that, the place looks pretty much the same as I remember.

The head-gate on the canal was open when I pulled into the field road, and still is. I can hear the water letting down into the pasture below. The same big old single cottonwood tree is down the bank a ways -- where I used to sit and swat mosquitos, watching dozens of summer sunsets as a teenager, listening to the crickets come out, and the frogs. Across the road, upstream a quarter-mile, the old bridge is still there -- where we used to put in to float, or swim, or just sit and drink a pop and let the evening pass.

I don't remember who owns this lovely piece of property -- maybe I used to know. It's just a big winding strip of farmland, heading down toward the river-bottoms. I don't even know what they farm here, but it has always smelled so fresh and clean. Probably alfalfa? I wonder if the people who own this place know we found their swimming hole by the bridge, or if they would care if they saw me here tonight?

Something inside me feels so sad, so wistful -- almost lonely -- as I look out across the fields and hear the sprinklers going in the distance. The clouds are blocking the last rays of light as the sun disappears behind the trees. All the majestic pinks and purples are reflecting vibrantly, just as I always remembered them. I feel very alive as I watch the magic bursts of cloud floating across the dusky sky.

From this spot, I prayed for a witness that God is real, that Christ still lives. And in the wind, the water and the stillness of another evening like this, I felt my answer. Even now, as I look out over the scene, I can feel that sweet serenity once again.

On that bridge, I sat with my first love and threw rocks into the water during our first fight.

Down that field road, I walked with my best friend on a bright starry night, and forgave her all the pettiness of our shared adolescence.

I stand by my little Volkswagon now, listening to the water gurgle down into the pasture below, wishing Brian were here to cuddle me out of my melancholy reminiscence. But even if he were here, would he know what I'm feeling? Would he really understand?

Maybe it isn't Brian I'm missing right now.

Maybe it's my past.

I have so many memories here, in this place I call home. Even years after I've left it behind me. It's still home, still a part of me. Not just Cottonwood, but this whole place where I was a girl. I have so many dreams and plans that I left here when I moved on, grew up, left home.

And yet, whenever I return, those old girlish dreams are still here waiting for me, almost haunting me with a sweet sadness for the path I didn't choose.

It's not that I wish I'd taken whatever unknown path I left behind me. I love the place where I am today -- and the choices that have brought me here. But still, some secret part of me just cherishes my past so dearly that I sometimes ache for its irretrievable loss, while loving the memories.