Word press puts out a post everyday, called “Daily Prompt”. Today the prompt was “Oasis”. Dictionary.Com defines it as “Something serving as a refuge, relief, or pleasant change from what is usual, annoying, or difficult.”
My personal Oasis, unfortunately, exists only in my mind and memories now. To be completely accurate, there are two different places I go.
One is more a time, than a place; but it involved tombstones, old souls, spirits that talked to me, and young hearts eager to experience life. It is a place that lives strong in my reminiscence, with a fondness I find difficult describe. Especially favorable memories that have come to mean so very much to me over the years, now even more so. Every time I think of those days, a warm smile tugs at my lips and sets a glimmer in my eyes.
The other Oasis, is one I have written about on one of my other blogs a few years back. It was a little place not far from our house in Alma, Co. Up Buckskin Gulch, near the Paris Mill. There was an old mine tram that in it’s day carried many a miner up the steep mountainside to the Paris Mine. All that was left was a shed with the remnants of an old electric motor, and the tram itself. It sat on steel rails that ran straight up the mountain side supported by dilapidated wooden tresses. The rails traveled up through tall lodge pole pines, an eerie path that had at one time been a major part of peoples lives. Just two rails that led the way up the mountainside, yet time had been unkind to them. There was a lone pine tree growing between the rails, spreading its meager branches to envelope the path of the tram.
I would sit, leaning against one of the older trees, where I could look up the rails to the mountainside. If I was quiet enough, I could hear the rustling of the wind in the branches as it told the stories of those who had gone before. There were times I could swear I heard men’s voices in friendly conversation as they made their way to the tram. Men talking as they found their seats and prepared for another day in the depths of the mountain. I wondered what those men dreamed of, whether they survived, found their fortunes, or perished penniless in the cold damp darkness of the mine. I could feel the spirits, those many years back, wandering the ground they had walked in life. I wondered if they felt there was still unfinished business… or if they were happily content with their ghostly wanderings.
If one finds the right place, a grove of trees, a field of blowing grass, a hidden glen beside a mountain stream. All you have to do is sit quietly and listen close. If you let yourself, you’ll hear the melody of the spirits as they share their stories. It’s the wind whispering in the leaves, sharing the secrets of those who went before. A place that for some strange reason gives comfort and contentment, even stirring just a little inspiration. I know my oasis… with a stirring familiarity. Have you found yours?