“Again I saw that under the sun the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, nor bread to the wise, nor riches to the intelligent, nor favor to those with knowledge, but time and chance happen to them all.”
‭‭Ecclesiastes‬ ‭9‬:‭11‬ ‭ESV‬‬

I’m curious which city might be for me. A city, I mean a large metropolis with streets, sidewalks, crosswalks, vehicles scurrying.

A city with windows of shops inviting in, with quick pauses not gazes inward so that I don’t cause a domino type cascade of collision because I actually stood quietly for too long.

In the mornings, some days I drive to the country road with no line in middle chunky asphalt and a deep sharp turn into valley and hill to my grandchildren’s home.

The deer alert me from a distance with the flash of their pupils. I turn and drive slowly.

They stand unfazed by the approach of me in my vehicle.

They pause. I pause.

We consider each other.

Gradual is their demeanor.

They turn to move, one, two and a third and they go on their way into what they must know is a friendly place, a refuge for them.

No need to flee. There’s not even the threat of one.

I wonder where the city may be, the one I’d love to be a resident of.

I did not love Denver.

I loved the road to get there, the road that led us through flat spaces with flatter fields and a feeling as if the highway opened magically just for us.

I loved the expanse of plump green grass in Colorado in the Spring.

I did not love the congestion and what felt like an imbalance of progress and poverty.

I do not like Atlanta.

Don’t want to go.

I love the idea of Charleston but don’t like the air of superficial quests on every corner.

I suppose I’m growing older and becoming even more the child of bare feet dirt roads.

And even less a traveler.

Even day trips to bordering counties.

Still, sweetly and deeply planted, refusing to fade, is the yearning to travel to Italy someday.

It’s a yearning not born of anyone else’s story.

Maybe a part of me like air in my lungs decided by the God who knows me and who knows.

There are places yet for you to see. Your journey is continuing.

Your dreams are dreams I’ve always seen.

Perhaps, in Italy there are dirt roads sprinkled with docile animals and kindred people who yet to encounter me.

And I, them. Kind intersections of somehow likemindedness.

And in a language without words our eyes might tell a story we decide we understand.

Until then, I’ll venture out to the country. I’ll walk on rocky roads. I’ll tilt my face upward with a little boy and I’ll wonder, just wonder where the jets are going.

I’ll stop my car in the middle of the narrow road at sunup or sundown and I’ll let the window down, aim my phone just so.

I’ll be captivated as I capture the wonder of this wonderful world.

And I’ll quietly imagine Italy.

Or maybe the high peaks of Denver, Braves baseball and pink houses with garden gates covered in moss on the skinny streets of Charleston.

Every place holds beauty.

Beauty longing to be noticed.