The original entrance to Hot Springs Village is about fifteen miles west of the newer entry on the east end. The road between the two is lined on both sides by forests, intermittently interrupted by signs of civilization like golf courses, lakes, tiny eruptions of rare commercial enterprise, and roads and streets leading to residential areas. Mostly, though, the traveler from west to east is exposed to a thick mix of deciduous hardwoods and pine trees. This time of year, the leaves on the deciduous trees are in the midst of change, displaying a stunning mix of colors: red, yellow, orange, brown, green, and more. The most eye-catching trees are the ones whose collections of leaves now are entirely bright, phosphorescent yellow. But the contrasts between tall trees with bright yellow leaves and those with incredibly intense red leaves are breathtaking, as well. The first time I drove those fifteen miles, I fell in love with the scenery. I marveled at how the trees on both sides of the road created a sense, for me, of being in the middle of a massive forest; the trees masked “civilization” behind the woods. Getting away from the Village, though, puts me in an even better frame of mind; the world’s problems vanish, replaced by serenity in every leaf.
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Perhaps I would have slept much more soundly last night if I had driven onto an isolated, seldom-traveled forest road, parked, and reclined in my car seat that could have become a safe, unreachable cocoon. Instead, though, I tossed and turned for most of the night, unable to slow my mind enough to fall asleep. It was not a single thought that kept me from sleep; hundreds of unrelated matters crowded my consciousness spun through my brain. Each one, when it departed, left me with little scraps of thought-wreckage; fibers of vague worry or discontent that simply would not leave without depositing some of their remains as reminders. My attempts at sleep were sabotaged by frayed and worn memories of experiences I cannot recall.
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Leaf blowers…loud, powerful, disturbing…have taken hold of my consciousness. Their noise is too invasive to ignore. I loathe the commotion they create in an already-chaotic mind. But we decide between the temporary cacophony they bring and the tangled mass of layers upon layers of leaves and acorns that linger so long in their absence. Life is full of such choices; between swallowing razor blades and dousing oneself with gasoline before striking a match. We hire and pay for this disturbance, opting to risk deafness and insanity rather than willingly accepting forest burial.
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My decisions are not made in a vacuum. They take place in a space full of pressurized air and focused experience. And randomness, sprinkled with certainty, ambiguity, and precision.
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