YIELDING

"On the Road: Trans-Canadian Highway",
oil, by Robin Weiss

       Sometimes, when I see a “YIELD” sign on an entrance to an Interstate, I sigh in reassurance, and smile, for it reminds me that I can constantly yield to the bountiful power that runs all things. I’m not talking about God, at least not the God that gave me fits all through my childhood – the God that could crush me in anger as easily as bless me. No, the power that I can continuously yield to is simply the force that flows through the vast universe, the force that both thinks all my thoughts and throws the starlight across the sky each night. It’s the force that’s forever doing all the jobs that I usually mistakenly think I’m responsible for, everything from lifting and lowering my lungs to making sure I’m safe in stressful circumstances. It’s the power that pushes spring winds through blossoming trees and places feelings of all kinds inside me. It tells me to turn left or stare at a stunning sunset. It leads me, and therefore lets me love my life rather than worry about it. I have to have the good sense, though, to yield to this power, to let it freely flow like the traffic on I-95, like the blood that streams through me on its own.