Did you go for weekend drives when you were young? When the whole family piled into the family truckster and took off down winding roads? 

Mine did – and we did it often.

Dad was a country guy. I don’t say country boy because that has a weird connotation to me. Like when you say, city girl. You immediately get a picture in your head of who that person is. I tend to stay away from assumptions like that. Thus – country guy. It just feels more open-minded somehow.

Born in south-central Kansas in the early 1930s, my dad told us of how he wrote to the county Ford dealership when he was 14 and got his license. 14. Years. Old. Another lifetime, yes? Nowadays, parents struggle to pay for driving school and insurance for teens who in some cases don’t even want to learn to drive. Such a difference.

But to my dad, driving meant freedom. And adventure. And the idea that there is something just around the bend.

I know I got my love of driving from him. And the allure to walk – or drive – along my path in life, looking for what’s just around the curve. We are always on our path, though sometimes we decide to pull over to the side of the road and rest – or take a side road to explore a new area.

I live in a suburb of Denver, Colorado. And have taken many drives along country roads, highways, winding mountain roads and over high passes (scary ones too). Every autumn, I try to take a drive somewhere I haven’t been or been in a long time to see the splendor of nature with new eyes.

As my friend and I drove through the southern part of the state recently, we decided to take a brief detour. Neither one of us had been to the Great Sand Dunes National Park since we were children and we wanted to see it again – with new, more experienced, eyes.

As we drove, I remembered the last time I was there. Age 7, with my family of five, and relatives who met us there. It was a bit of a reunion. As as we walked over the dunes I could tell that those adults weren’t having nearly the fun we kids were having. Running to the top of a hill and sliding – or rolling – down to the bottom, only to do it again on the next hill. We were free on the waves of sand. 

Once we were exhausted (and covered in sand), we went back to the campground a few miles away. My mom said that the sand reminded her of a beach at low tide, with all of the small hills of sand that nature pushed into place. Water or wind – it doesn’t matter. We all felt a kindred spirit that day.

Waves of sand. Acknowledging the majesty of the earth of which we are part. I’m in awe – daily – of just how small we are in the grand scheme of this planet’s evolution. 

This isn’t a place or time to discuss the climate issues we face. That will come at another time. But there is not a place I’ve been that hasn’t had its own beauty and mystery. A way of being that draws me into its spell. 

Sunsets in the desert, dawn at a bay, dusk along a country road watching the softly waving fields of wheat. And walking along a mountain path in autumn, hearing the birds, smelling the forest as it shifts toward winter, feeling the crunch of leaves as you slip along, trying not to disturb the creatures and plants.

Looking for that one thing that will inspire you to breathe deeply, tip your head up to the sun.

And smile.