They Can't Cut Down the Clouds

"Thank God they can not cut down the clouds"

Thoreau 1857

Alameda Land - claimed, settled, cleared, fenced, planted, built on, asphalted over with little Eden places, like the bike path around Mount Trashmore.

The name speaks of bygone rubbish of past lives. The reality is a wonderful hill in flat Alameda, blocking the roadway from my fiew as I ride the bike path along San Leandro Bay. I see ground squirrels racing about, smell the licorace plant, watch pelicans, egrets, ducks and two leggged paddlers all savoring salt air, grass smells, wind. It's my secret place where I look back toward the Bay Farm Island Bridge and see the San Francisco Bay and The City across the water, I imagine I am in the back waters of South Carolina in the warm summer sun, enjoying a slower pace. Or I am around the shores of Lake Michigan, the ocean lake, I call it, feeling the ever present wind whip my face as I remember my Great Aunt Gert waling along with me at lake's edge. I travel to Squam Lake, New Hampshire, feeling free, distanced from traffic, calmed by water and nature's bounty.

My secret spot has no perfect beach or torquoise clear water. My bay has no tropical fish to visit or waves to ride. My secret magical spot has the bility to transform me to all my treasured places by removing me frome time and space to a land of nature's sounds and smells. My senses open on the back sid of the hill. My body relaxes into a natural rythm. My smile widens. My mind travels. The sky brightens. The clouds become the mythical animals of my childhood.

I too, thank God they can't cut down the clouds.

Where do you go to escape the challenges of you day and renew your spirit?