In the Fall of 2021, I checked off a bucket list item. I walked the streets of Jamestown, VA. This was not a visit to a place but an encounter with a time. I journeyed back to 1696 when James Emmanuel Dees arrived in Jamestown. He had traveled from Monikie, Angus, Scotland. He represented the last trickle of indentured servants who immigrated from Scotland to Virginia to start a new life.

At the time, Scotland was in turmoil between Protestant and Catholic, the English Monarch William of Orange, and the Jacobites who wanted a return to the Stuart line and a Scottish King. Political, religious, and economic uncertainty made it difficult for a 20-year-old man to establish himself. The landowners in Virginia were still paying a few people to travel from Scotland and pay off their passage with seven years of labor on the tobacco plantations. However, the practice was dying as the plantation owners found the enslavement of Africans to be more profitable. Enslavement meant they could “breed” their labor supply rather than rely on poor people from Europe. A young Emmanuel stepped off the ship at the Jamestown Harbor. He began his 7 years of service to Thomas Nesham and established himself and his name in North America.

In 1921, when we arrived at Historic Jamestown, I felt a sense of kinship with my 6th Great-Grandfather and the journey he had completed 227 years before. I doubt that he was thinking about the next two centuries. He was intent on shaking off the uncertainty of Scotland and was ready to embrace his new home here on the James River. He was surrounded by people from Scotland, Wales, England, the Dutch Republic, Denmark, Norway, Sweden, Ireland, Prussia, Saxony, Bavaria, Switzerland, and France. They had all come seeking new lives, free from the chaos of the old country. They worked together, intermarried, and became part of a great Western migration that would continue for the next 150 years. They established villages and towns across Appalachia and beyond. They became the vast working class of farmers, housewives, tradespeople, merchants, and soldiers. They built homes and schools, shops and saloons, courthouses and churches. They became the vast middle class of the American South.

Many met and married people whose families had immigrated through New York, Philadelphia, Boston, and the Texas Gulf Coast. Even though their ancestors had turned their backs on Europe, they brought many of the same attitudes and beliefs that fostered the chaos, uncertainty, and bloodshed that caused Emmanuel and his cohort to leave.

They remained unrepentant racists despite seeing first-hand the cruelty of the enslavement of Africans. They served as Overseers on plantations and supported the capture and return of people who sought freedom through escape. Later, they would apply these attitudes and treatment to Mexicans, Vietnamese, and every immigrant group that followed them to these shores, seeking refuge from the uncertainty of their own homeland.

They became the backbone of small towns across the South doing, in the words of George Bailey, ”…most of the living and dying…” They became our Great-grandparents, Grandparents, Parents, Uncles and Aunts, Sunday School Teachers, Auto Mechanics, Public School Teachers, Civil Servants, and everyone else who was part of our growing up. They struggled to pay the bills, raise their families, and make life better for their children. They did not recognize their privilege in society. Still, they fiercely defended their way of life, declaring they lived in the “greatest country the world had ever known.”

They were saints and sinners. They were “just folks” making their way in a new world. Like their ancestors, they did their best as they saw it at the time and went to their graves with both regret and gratitude. And, like their descendants, they had neither the wisdom nor inclination to give their ancestors absolution for not solving all the problems that would plague their children and grandchildren. Among them were eight generations of people named Dees who made their way through North Carolina, South Carolina, Tennessee, Alabama, Mississippi, Arkansas, Louisiana, and Texas in pursuit of a better life for themselves and their children. A few would scatter a bit further afield, but the core of the family became part of the small towns along the way. Those same small towns became part of their identity. They found their place, for good or ill, among the other children of immigrants from Europe.

Emmanuel and his descendants were with me as I walked across the boardwalk over the Back River Estuary that separates Jamestown from the mainland. When I reached Jamestown proper, I walked the old streets of Jamestown. I listened to the voices of new arrivals as they explored their new home. I heard them bartering for a room and a meal. I hear Emmanuel introduce himself to Mr. Nesham’s Overseer. I could hear people telling their stories to anyone who would listen, looking for connections “back home.” There were a few tears over family left behind and laughter when connections were made with other immigrants.

As I made my way to the wharf where Emmanuel first stepped ashore, I heard the rattle of carts carrying goods from Europe and the hesitant shuffle of footsteps, unsure of where they needed to go. The salty air smelled of fresh fish and people who had not bathed in weeks. The dusty streets were filled with a bustling city, the capital of Virginia. A church bell rang on the corner. As the new arrivals blended into the busy population, their “differences” melted away, and they became citizens of a new city and future nation. All it took was for them to step off the boat, and they were welcomed “home” as long as they did their best to fit in.

My trip to Jamestown has helped me understand that I, too, am an immigrant. These are not my ancestral lands. I am the recipient of the gift of a home because of a man named James Emmanuel and the thousands of people like him who sought a new life in a new country. They were fortunate to find people who shared their language, skin color, and history to welcome them. They did not endure becoming commodities bought and sold in slave markets. They were offered the dignity of what a later generation would call “inalienable Rights.” My citizenship in the United States of America grows out of this gift of a home paid for with the lives of James Emmanuel, Toby, Maria, Nguyen, and countless others. I respect their gift when I recognize it as a gift. I honor it most profoundly when I welcome others seeking out our shores for the same reasons: to provide a better life for themselves and their children.

There was no whispering involved on this day in Historic Jamestown. They and their modern-day counterparts in Laredo, San Diego, and Miami cried out to me with every step I took along the James River that day.

History is crying out to us! Are we listening?

Bob

Generally, in this blog, I offer words describing what I have heard from the presence that surrounds us. Today, however, I invite you to listen with your eyes and heart as the presence speaks to you through these images. Listen well, my friends. There is wisdom all around us!

Many believe wisdom is a rare commodity and only rises from deep wells of human thought after years of study and academic discipline. Others experience wisdom as the uncommon ability to see the world as it is, unclouded by too much “book learnin.” But I believe wisdom is a very common part of life in the universe. It is evident to those who have the eyes to see, the ears to hear, and the heart to receive it. How common is it? I experienced several lifetimes of wisdom during a visit to a midwestern zoo last year. Meet the sages of the Cincinnati Zoo, my friends, the Bonobos.

Pappa Bonobo regularly patrols his glass-encased Kingdom, comfortable in knowing that his family is safe and secure in their glass-encased realm.

The young ones explore their world, looking for whatever treasure awaits them!

They meet challenges, solve puzzles, and discover new things to learn!

When it becomes overwhelming, they lean on some shavings and gaze into their tomorrow.

They also make time for a snack to make the day sweeter!

Meanwhile, Mama keeps a watchful eye, celebrating the young ones growing into their lives.

Then, there is the philosopher in the family…

…pondering things too wonderful for words….

… knowing there is more than can ever be understood…

… but able to rest easy, savoring their life’s sweetness in their little Kingdom.

Life is good! It is all about caring for those we love, watching them grow, exploring, questioning, challenging, discovering all our world offers, and then having the time to sit back and ponder.

Would they change things if they could? Probably. But they did not let their desires disturb their lives in their little realm. They live fully and completely in their world. What more can any of us ask out of our days?

Such wisdom comes to those who have grown into their mind, body, and soul! All we must do is stop, look, and listen! (Hint: the occasional snack and nap will help as well.)

Blessings, my friends.

Bob

Our greatest gift to ourselves is the gift of being present to our life, to show up in every moment. When I enter a rough patch in life, I seek refuge in my illusions and magical thinking that ignores who I am, where I am, and my resources to “fight the good fight.” My myopic perspective ignores the here and there, the near and far. For example, we occasionally have problems with Koko, our Motorhome on the road. If it is something minor, then I may ignore it, magically thinking that it will go away because I do not want to deal with it at the moment. This avoidance seldom works out very well because when it finally becomes a more significant problem, it will occur at a less opportune time! But in the last year, I have been gifted with many beautiful horizons that have invited me to stretch my vision to the horizon and beyond. Here are a few of those horizons and the whispers they offered to my soul. They have all helped me see the wisdom of staying present to myself and the world around me.

This horizon appeared as we walked through Lincoln Memorial Garden outside Springfield, IL. We had been on the road for eight months and spent a week exploring all things Abraham Lincoln in his hometown. I was growing weary in mind, body, and soul. We saved this small park for our last day in Springfield. The trails were beautifully curated forest landscapes, including this little cove on the end of the lake, looking back toward the city. The reflections in the water enhanced the day’s beauty as the clouds drifted slowly across an azure sky. Ducks and songbirds surrounded us, along with the sweet aroma of the forest. I took all this into my soul. I traced the thin line of hills at the horizon and revisited the pleasant memories of the city hidden from view. The magic of horizons is that they offer us both the seen and the unseen in one moment. What we see may be beautiful, but remembering pleasant memories can be more soul-sustaining. This horizon was a feast for the eyes and the mind and nourishing for the soul as well.

This image is from the hills of Antelope Island on the Great Salt Lake. This parched landscape teems with life and offers elegant testimony to the adaptability and ingenuity of life itself. This place is no Dead Sea. The hills support a flora that has found a way to thrive on the salt-laden rocks laced with thin soil—every crevice shelters moisture from the abundant sunshine. Life survives in these small oases and supports the fauna of the island. Large herds of bison graze on the grasslands and hillsides. Rabbits, mice, and lizards skitter through the landscape, where Burrowing Owls and other birds of prey hunt them down. The island is a rich and varied landscape that supports a wealth of life.

But life is not limited to the land. The waters beyond the shoreline are also teeming with life. They are too salty to support fish, but they support a wide variety of bacteria and algae that colonize the shore, painting it with a rainbow of hues. These microscopic colonies support a large insect community that swarms over the water. These huge swarms attract large numbers of Gulls and Terns who feast on the abundance of food at the water’s edge. Pelicans gather here in large numbers, feasting off the surrounding wetlands and finding safety for their young on the barren islands scattered throughout the area. When I raised my gaze to the far horizon, I saw the Wasatch Mountains, where life has found a home in alpine meadows and valleys. Turning in another direction, I saw the Oquirrh Mountains, where life has taken hold among deep winter snows and blistering hot Summers. Elk, Bighorn Sheep, Foxes, and other creatures make these mountains their home. Life on the Great Salt Lake and in the surrounding mountains demonstrates that it survives and thrives with a diverse abundance! Horizons help us see beyond our near-sighted biases and embrace the impossibilities of life in the undiscovered lands beyond our imaginations!

This image is from the cliffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean at Bodega Bay along the Central California Coast. This image captures two mystical, thin places in creation, where the water meets the shore and the vast stretch of an ocean horizon. In the foreground, we discover the complexity of life. Wildflowers of varying hues live among the brilliantly colored Ice Plants. But life is a struggle on these rocky cliffs. Native wildflowers battle the invasive Ice Plant. They fight for a foothold in this unstable ground as the weather and active seismic activity drag everything to the edge. The Sea Stacks just offshore speak of land that has already been lost, but even here, life has found a foothold as a nesting place for birds and nurseries for seals. The near ground of this image speaks to the complexity of life as it struggles to maintain its footing on a creation that will ultimately yield to the chaos of nature, but not yet! This foreground is a magical place indeed!

The distant horizon is no less magical. The simple thin line between the sea and sky contains the realm of deep imagination. Every generation of shore-bound people has sat at a place like this and imagined what lies beyond. For some, it was the chaos of the edge of creation that, once reached, would lead to a fall into the abyss of time and space. For others, it represented unknown lands where they could build new lives. Every mind has had its imaginative journey over that line and dreamed of the possibilities. It inspires, terrifies, and instills hope, beckoning us to reach beyond our familiar shore to glimpse what lies beyond. The deep magic of this horizon is that it invites us to hope in the unknown, believing that life abounds on distant shores as it does on our own.

During our 2024 stay in West Memphis, we were fortunate to have an RV site that was steps away from “that Old Man River.” The foreground is lost in shadow, but the horizon is on fire with the glory of a Southern Sunset. And in between lay a piece of history, both human and natural, that drains 41% of the lower contiguous United States before entering the Gulf of Mexico far to the South. But horizons are not just about geography; they are also about time, and this shot offers a glimpse of a horizon in time that awaits all carried in its currents. Each of us continuously flows into a new moment, night or day! We live on that thin line called “now” that sits between “yesterday” and “tomorrow.” But, like a river, time has a direction, and sometimes we must trust the “river.” It has been flowing for a long time and has found a path over the “snags” and log jams. Roll on, Big River, Roll On! The horizon awaits us all in the glory of a brilliant sunset.

This image is from a Whale Watch out of Ventura Harbor in the Channel Islands off the California Coast. The vastness of the Pacific stretches to the distant horizon. This horizon is a limitless wonder where these massive beasties find joy in the currents of life. At their best, our horizons are sources of joy as we imagine life out there. But imagining is not enough. These whales spend the summer in the Bering Straits of Alaska, feeding and finding mates. They then swim 3,000 miles to the Hawaiian Archipelago, where they bear and raise their young before returning each Spring. In the vastness of life, we cannot simply sit and enjoy. The horizon invites us to live our lives fully. Its presence demands that we push our horizons regularly to claim the abundance life offers for our hearts and minds!

I am a child of the Texas Hill Country. My earliest memories include the rocky limestone hills covered with Juniper and Live Oaks. But this place, Enchanted Rock, is a powerful place that fills my soul and lifts my eyes to the horizons of life! This rocky prominence outside of Fredericksburg is one of the oldest rocks in the world. It rose above the surrounding hills 1.1 billion years ago. I have climbed on, fallen on, sat on, and pondered life on this magical pink granite dome throughout my 71 years. From this trail, it dominates the horizon. But, from its peak, the Hill Country reaches into forever in all directions. Life exists on its summit, where seasonal ponds sustain weathered juniper trees. These trees hold onto life in the cracks and crevices. Yet, the star is the rock itself. It speaks to the far horizons of time from its creation to the moment it will be absorbed back into the earth itself. Standing here allows time to stop, and I take in the universe’s depth, breadth, and width. Here, I rediscover that the rock and I are temporary sojourners. We live, move, and have our being between the near and far of life.

I hope always to be aware of the world around me, from within my reach to the distant horizons, from the ever-present now to the farthest reaches of yesterday and tomorrow. All that we have been, or ever will be, exists between those horizons. These horizons offer us the gift if we have the wisdom to unwrap them here and now!

Travel well, my friends,

Bob

This is a picture of Comal Springs at Landa Park in New Braunfels, Texas. This is one of the historic Balcones Fault Springs where humans have quenched their thirst for 13,000 years. They flow from the Edwards Aquifer, deep beneath the Balcones Escarpment that represents the Eastern edge of the Texas Hill Country. The pure, crystal-clear water has been naturally filtered through hundreds of feet of limestone and bubbles at Comal Springs, San Marcos Springs, Jacobs Well, Little Arkansas, Sink Springs, and hundreds of other places across the region. I grew up on the Balcones and, like my Appalachian ancestors, fell in love with the rocks, the Cedars, the Live Oaks, and the springs. I have been listening to them my entire life. Walking past this part of Comal Springs, I heard them again, “Help me!”

The springs know that I am an old friend. This one reached out to me in whispers beyond mere words. In a timeless moment, it reminded me of my lifetime by its waters. I learned to swim, caught my first fish, paddled my first canoe, daydreamed, and wandered to their timeless music, splashing, singing, and dancing with joy over the river and creek beds of the escarpment. In that same timeless moment, I saw my Dad and Aunt Vikie sitting by the water, holding a cane pole and spitting on their bait to increase their luck. I tasted the watermelon we chilled in the springs flowing out of the hillside of Little Arkansas. I walked along the banks of the San Marcos River with my childhood friend Richard as we discovered our world during lazy Summer Days. My old friend spoke to me from the dusty, dry rocks at the bottom of that Spring and whispered, “Help me, old friend.”

For millennia, these springs have provided the essentials of life: clean water, cooling compresses for feverish brows, and joyous music for weary souls beaten down by hardship and worry. Fish and four-legged creatures, long-extinct, found life in these waters. Humankind found a welcome respite after thousands of years wandering from the African deserts. Countless tribes have gathered along the banks of these springs, streams, and rivers to celebrate their harvests, welcome their children, and mourn their losses. These waters have taken delight in every word of thanks uttered by the successful fisherman and the laughter of every child as they were bathed by loving hands in their waters. These springs offered abundance from the aquifer below, and rejoiced in the life that flourished above because of their gift. As I stood there, gazing at the parched spring bed, I heard the voice once again, “Help me, old friend. I’m thirsty!”

A combination of drought and over-pumping from the aquifer has dropped the water level within a few feet of the springs. We stole their water before they got it. Fueled by industry, our cities demand more and more of the aquifer’s resources. They are pumping out the lifeblood of my old friends. Global warming holds more water in the warming air and denies the ground its needed moisture. Droughts have been made more severe. We have built massive concrete caps over the recharge zones where the rain should begin its journey back to the groundwater. We deny the springs their future ability to care for us and our world. And yet, the springs still see us as cherished friends. They depend on us to show gratitude and wisdom about our inter-connectedness and beg us, “Help me, old friend. I’m thirsty, and I need your help!”

My heart ached for my old friend, but I had to step away. Sometimes, getting lost in another’s pain is a way to avoid our own pain and our responsibility for theirs. It is too easy to “wail and gnash” our teeth at injustice and, in the process, do nothing to stop it. I felt lost in the dry Spring’s melancholy and needed to move on. It was time to see what lay around the bend of that dry creek bed.

Within a few yards, I heard the music once again.

There was one Spring still flowing from the hillside. It was small, but its voice re-awakened hope in my weary, worried soul. “Help me, old friend. There is life in this old Spring yet. We have not reached the end. You can make a difference.”

The music of the Universe invites us to step out of our lament with the faith that we can make a difference. We must seek out the wellsprings of life that still flow from the hillsides of history. We need to listen to the pleading of those who are being crushed and feel their pain. But we must also listen to the voices of joy, speaking hope for a new day. Let those voices pull you out of your self-pity so that you can claim the future that can be.

“Help me, old friend! I’m thirsty, and I need your help! But don’t give up! Remember the music! Sing along with me. Do what you can. Share my song.”

Together, we can revive these life-giving springs. We must believe that those who come after us will be able to quench their thirst for life once again because we heard the Universe’s cry for help and song of hope!’

Listen well, my friends! The Universe is calling out to you!

Bob