Vista: a distant view through or along an avenue or opening; a prospect

There is something in us that loves a vista. As I make my way down the old highway, my pace quickens until I crest the hill about a half mile in. The vista that appears before me is one that never disappoints.

Layers of elm, cottonwood, birch, hickory, and ash wash the early morning with green. With this vista before me and my eyes fixed on the horizon, I walk with purpose. Space unfolds exponentially; the distant treeline, like a mirage, shimmers with possibilities.

If there be sound in this vista, let it be wind through the cottonwoods. Just this.

On a wall in my house are words my father wrote, words I have learned to live by:

Words have no other choice. They have to risk space. 

In the everyday world of people and things, it is often difficult to find space. We crowd our lives with sound and stuff, fearing the silence and risks of space. Busyness suffocates any seed of thought; words wither under the weight of work.

When I walk toward the vista of northern Davis County each morning, I find that there are words, once dormant, that spring to life. They risk the solitude at dawn, nebulous at first, but clearly taking shape.

Often by the time I reach my turning point and begin the trip home, these words, like a familiar chorus, resound with each step. Having written themselves into this blessed space and time, they will ultimately find themselves committed to paper: the most serious risk.

There is something in us that loves a vista. It offers a sanctuary of space we all instinctively desire.