Restoration

The cool dawn called to me this morning. In the gray light, before the sun peeked over the mountains, I gathered my gear and headed up the parkway. Pink-bottomed clouds greeted me as I arrived at the entrance and headed north.

By the time I got to a good sunrise overlook, the pink had disappeared. The blue sky and golden light greeted me with such splendor that I did not feel cheated by the rosy hue’s disappearance.

There is something immensely pleasing about driving along the Blue Ridge Parkway before engaging in my daily routine. My senses are awakened by nature, not email or Facebook, oil spill updates or even coffee. During these times of solitude with the mountains, clouds, wild turkeys and fresh air, I am restored.

Today was the first time I’ve photographed places in nature that weren’t coated in oil since I begin covering the disaster in May. To say that I needed the experience is like saying I needed to breathe this morning. As I watched the sun rise over the ridge line and felt the 58 degree wind whip around me at the top of Mt. Mitchell, a part of me came back, a part that had no choice but to disappear with the horror of what I’ve witnessed over the summer.

Gratitude sparked through me as I recognized the connection between nature from the highest peak east of the Mississippi River to the Gulf Coast. The pristine beauty I experienced this morning connected me back to my coastal birthplace and somewhere within, I knew that eventually, after arguments and payouts and lies and dark times, the Gulf would be restored. In the end, nature will be restored.