THE GRAVEYARD ROAD
“The greatest thing a human soul ever does in this world is to see something and tell what it saw in a plain
way. Hundreds of people can talk for one who can think, but thousands can think for one who can see.
To see clearly is poetry, prophecy and religion, all in one.” John Ruskin
When he was a child, at such time as permission was granted, he rode his bike down the grave yard road
in front of his house. Turning right out of the drive he rolled, almost without pedaling one and one half miles,
mostly downhill to where the road ended in a field. He stopped and stared for a moment at the headstones with
their somber colors and their meaningless names and numbers. The poetry of the dead end journey and the
silence and stillness of the day was lost on his childish sensibilities. He turned and with considerably more
effort he rode back home. Except for the small statement of independence it was an unremarkable journey.
Some years earlier his mother had taken him with her to an art class. His first painting was a cacophonous mix
of primary colors each separated as they would be in a coloring book, an order and language which he
understood. It was a creation of pure imagination and an uninhibited lack of skill. It would fix his way of
thinking for decades to come. Whether it was the bicycle or the brush he seemed to be seduced by freedom.