If I time it right, and turn off my gravel road before 7:20, I’m ahead of the school bus that stops often along the first leg of my drive to school each morning. The bus is on its way to another school, and we part ways after about two miles. But even on the days when I end up behind it, I breathe and enjoy the trip.
My drive to work could never be called a commute. I pass rolling fields and newly creosoted three board fences that stretch across gracious properties. Horses graze on hillsides, and the Blue Ridge Mountains frame the edge of my view. The clouds along the horizon shift. I look for shapes and notice patterns. Some mornings the low lying fog blurs the hay bales that dot the wide open spaces. Other days I look up and watch hot air balloons drift high above the stately farms.
It isn’t a commute. I pass a steeplechase racetrack on my right, and on the left, a sweet old country store with an ever changing chalkboard out front announcing today’s hot meal. I drive by memories too- the turn off to my girls’ preschool, an enchanting barn-turned-schoolroom tucked at the back of a beautiful farm.
My journey doesn’t take long- about 12 minutes. I could never call it a commute.
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