Sometimes it isn’t the destination, but the journey that makes a road trip valuable.  A few days ago while a snowstorm was brewing in the Colorado mountains, in an apartment in the foothills early in the morning, I sat by my fireplace with one log burning, watching a seemingly dreary day unfold.  It was cloudy, cold, and even after the sun should have arisen, the sky was dark.  What looked like was going to be a rain-soaked day quickly became the biggest snowstorm of the season thus far.  It’s true that sometimes things are not as they appear.  Knowing that remaining indoors was going to be my ticket to an equally as dreary countenance as the weather appeared to be predicting, I decided it would quite beneficial, even if the weather was going to be bad, to get out of the confines of my apartment, take my camera out and look for something to shoot photographs of. 

The further up the mountain I drove, the colder the air, the more wild the wind, and the more snow that fell, it became apparent  the gloomy and icy weather was matching my gloomy and icy mood.  And the photographs I captured reflected it well. They looked so lonesome and cold.

I had no idea where I was headed.  The weather turned bad enough that I pulled into Georgetown, unwilling to step outside the confines of my very warm vehicle, with the intention of turning around.   Then I saw the lake.  Frozen, and cold, not a sign of sunshine in the sky to warm the sight, I couldn’t help but watch the snow blowing off the surface, giving the impression of fog dancing above the frozen water.  Still icy and grey, the sight suddenly seemed sadly beautiful.  My sorrowful beginning to the day was making room for a melting away of frozen spirit in awe of a beautiful sight on the lake.  Camera in hand, I left my vehicle, breathed in deeply  the cold air, and discovered a happiness suddenly captured my being as I captured photographs of my previous mood. 

                Somewhere along the line I found a dirt road, and allowed myself to get lost on it, driving, stopping occasionally to capture a photograph of something which inspired me.  I discovered I was no longer able to wallow in the grey of the skies, but that I had to move, on my feet, camera in hand, down trails, and dirt roads, among quiet wooded areas where nothing but wildlife kept me company. 

               

It was in this place that I found myself resting, enjoying the peace, watching how the wind could drive the snow in every direction just as the travel in itself had driven me into a place of quiet peace.  I needed rest, a time for self-expression.  Does not art come from the depths of the artist? While no destination in particular caught my attention during that storm, finding a sense of my quiet self became a destination of the soul.  I discovered  the destination not quite as important as just getting there.  And there was rest.  J