Yesterday, for the “retreat” part of this work week in Arkansas, we drove an hour and a half west to Petit Jean Mountain. It was where the organization I work for began —  and a place that holds special memories for me.

I spent most of the day at a conference room inside, but there were a few minutes at the beginning and end of the day when I could walk to the brow of the hill and savor the view —  the big puffy clouds casting shadows on the fields, the hawks soaring high above the pines, the two mountain ranges that draw the gaze ever westward.

It was a view that captivated me decades ago — and still does. I thought about why. It’s more than just the beauty, I think. It’s also the promise and perspective, metaphor for a nation that once stretched its legs across a continent and took its strength from people and from place.