Crossing Over /written January 12, 2010

January 12, 1975

It was a cold winters' day in Burlington, Vermont or maybe by this time I was in Rutland or Montpelier but I was somewhere along a hiking path, two old souls I did not know no older than my 18 years guiding me to a highway where I might continue my journey to nowhere. The sun warm the wind as cold, I was lost physically, metaphorically and couldn’t tell north from south, east from west but I surely could tell up from down as we approached an old abandoned railroad bridge hovering several hundred feet above an expansive and frozen solid body of water. Maybe it was the Winooski River or Lake Champlain I don’t remember, didn’t spend much time contemplating the scenery, though a flip of the switch revives the image to memory. Picturesque and beautiful is winter in Vermont where ice and snow meet sky and earth, life and death in one burst. This long ago dismantled bridge arced in the middle boasting old and worn ties that rails used to lie across and locomotives used to glide upon to get to the other side. I didn’t think much about its’ history, maybe it was used to transport supplies to the factories during the industrial boom of the early 19th century or the immigrants who might have built it or the tools they might have used to forge and bend iron and steel striking at the heal of years of blood sweat and tears. It seemed safe enough to cross and first hesitation met with no going back from where I came, crossing over was the new game, into a new light of day; a better day lay ahead. But better days do not catch up without the fear of overcoming past and present, and on this day of this journey to nowhere fear would bring me to my knees; stop me dead in my tracks so to speak….