I head north on VA-231 and turn on to the Old Blue Ridge Turnpike. And as I drive a few miles I feel my body relax.
I breathe deep as I pass a few pastures ~ grain silos ~ Old Rag Mountain in the distance crowned in the signature blue haze.
A little further down the road I see the men gathered in front of the Old Mercantile, trading fishing and hunting stories.
I cross the road and head up the hill to Graves Mountain Lodge where a rocking chair is calling my name. They’re playing bluegrass down at the picnic shelter.
And right now ~ at this moment ~ all is right with the world.
