The Road

Pushing along Interstate 70, the Grateful Dead bluesing on the stereo, I am lost in a panoramic dream of endless mesas and plateaus. I reflect on where we have come and where we are going.

We have just conquered Colorado - hiking mountainous trails with a heavy heartbeat as the paths wind their way to the final summits. From the tops of these peaks it becomes clear why the Rocky Mountains are so named. But even with this clarity the question begs, "Why am I called to come here?"

I turn back down the trail to catch my daughter smiling thoughtfully at the kaleidoscope of wildflowers that melt into a patchwork design across the valley below. A mix of amazement and serenity dance in her eyes.

It is the same amazement that I feel every time I load up my car, or hop on a bus, or strap on my pack and head for somewhere new. It can happen on the top of a mountain, beside the ocean, at an art museum, or even in the dancehall. Inspiration holds no boundaries or requirements. As long as we search for it, inspiration always answers the call.

I have long since known where to find my inspiration. Kerouac knew it, Che Guevara embraced it. It beckons, it nourishes, it defeats and even destroys. But most of all it inspires - and that is why we come.

Those who feel it, know it. And those who don't can stay home and watch tv.