I do a lot of off-road mountain biking, albeit very slowly. I have too much respect for how easy it is to break a bone to go flying off jumps and getting horizontal on the berm. But a two hour trek through the national forest, dodging tree limbs and fox squirrels, is the perfect prescription to clear my head.
And then came the fire.
I was peacefully hurtling through the undergrowth today when I shot out of a clearing and into the smoking aftermath of a controlled burn. The forest service does these occasionally, turning the tangled green undergrowth into acres of char. At eight miles along, it was too late to reroute the ride, so I plunged into the burn, hoping to get across without being spotted by a well-meaning forester.
I rode for miles through a landscape was nearly lunar in its gray desolation. Large pine trees will survive and thrive, but everything else is scoured off. The ride was better and faster because I could see roots and rocks that the small scrub had obscured. It doesn’t take long for the plant life to bounce back and flourish, and then bring the nutrients in the soil back into alignment. I came out the other side breathing hard, sounding and smelling like a pack-a-day smoker. I couldn’t wait to get home to take a shower, but even more so to look at my book.
The ride had made me realize that my work was in need of a controlled burn. A lot had been written that wasn’t necessary, but the roots were strong. It needed to be stripped down to the essential bones, scrubbing away the weeds, letting things breathe and grow when the sunlight can reach in.
What remains will be better. What grows will be stronger.
Light a match.