83. Into the Wild

While I highly recommend this movie, some things are just sad--sad enough to pull a bubble of grief up from somewhere you thought neatly tucked away. The movie was good on its own, sad on its own. Triumphant too, for the human spirit. It will stay with me a while. I am deeply touched by the story itself, by the story of a man who heals himself through his communion with nature. I know this is a place I go, like my father before me for solace, for inspiration, for the proof we need that faith is not undeserved. The characters he meets on his journey remind me of a million oddballs my father mentioned from New York to Nashville--stories I can't hear again.

In one scene, the soundtrack pulls up Roger Miller's "King of the Road." Like the smell of paste conjures up a kindergarten sweetheart, a song can bring on a tidal wave of another time's magic dust. This song brought a kaleidescope of memories: the million times my dad sang this song in the car or in the workshop--badly out of tune but with incredible enthusiasm. I hadn't realized fond memories might force out a current of tears.

If the movie was about a man who felt he was alone, it's resolution was his recognition that he was loved and that happiness must be shared. Grief is more private, but it is healed through sharing.

There is wilderness. But there is no "alone". This blog's for you, Pop, out there in the Wild.