A long straight road, flat with barely perceptible cadences, with a mile stand of oak trees that shelters and interrupts the view, it stretches to the sky where it begins and ends. This is the Midwest. (This is Michigan, land of blue lakes.) I find Jonesville Road to be so poetic that I drive it as often as possible while I am here. The name so American, so simple, so honest. I am struck by the contrast of mechanically farmed fields with those of the Amish which are textured and varied. The machine made farms are close cropped, regular, and conformed, watered by giant electrical spinning jets. The Amish farms are a riot of hand worked crops, random shrubs, flowers, animals, and all sorts of agricultural artifacts, watered by heaven. I want to run my hand over their fields. The buildings are rustic and low, compatible with the landscape. I think that the Amish are living their values. I don’t know what goes on behind closed barn doors, but I perceive them to be authentic. I am in search of, not only the authentic, but the truth. I’m keeping an eye out for beauty along the way, and I am in pursuit of health. 

I am tired, no—I’m exhausted, my health in a general state of unwellness. I am sick of the so-called Christian church and I hate art, the profession to which I have devoted my life. It’s just that it’s all so false. It sounds cliché to say that I am disillusioned. Naïve to be still trying to reconcile myself to a world of corrupt systems. But it’s true. Why not just give up and join the cynics? I would if I could but my heart compels me to seek.

It’s why I love the honesty of Jonesville Road. There are no twists, no turns, and if there is a surprise ahead, you will see it well in advance. It is ten miles of straight. And it’s very beautiful. In Pennsylvania where I come from, there is plenty of rural but you never know what’s around the bend—here, no bends, no hills to speak of, and the unobstructed view gives one the impression that a farm is forever.