Another Pilgrim, Another Creek
June 2008
Sometimes circumstances come together to create an unforgettable
moment - one that leads directly to seeing clearly for the first
time what's been going on around us all along. Just as I've seen
microscopic beings up close through the powerful lenses that make
that possible, so also have I now seen the awakening of Summer
during these last few weeks of late Spring.
I'm in New
York, not the city this time, but 50 miles west of the Great White
Way. It's isolated here, but I am far from desolate as I enjoy
the comfort of my daughter's redwood house and the company of
her beautiful collie dog, Sonny. I don't think I could have adequately
described peace until I walked through a day totally absent of
mayhem.
So, this is
what is meant by peaceful! An added plus is not having cell phone
access. My first reaction was, "What am I going to do?"
I did have online access for emergencies, but rarely turned to
it. There is a huge satellite television set with channels galore
but I rarely turned to that, either.
My entertainment
was looking through my window on the world: 10 feet wide and six
feet high, neither cumbersome blinds nor curtains, obscured my
view of the vista before my eyes. I look down a hill of Spring
lawn, across a seldom-traveled narrow road, unencumbered by bushes
and trees, a driveway to the right and the woods on the left.
Directly across
the road is a carpet of low foliage and Spring blossoms that the
world calls weeds but I call dandelions and buttercups. Spindly
trees rise up now and will grow to full height by mid-Summer.
They appear to be oak, pines and maple trees. In summertime here,
maple trees have leaves as large as dinner plates, according to
what I've heard, but now they are still in the late Spring mode.
This is my
first Spring here. I've been here in Summer but in Summer I come
for the cool brisk air and this Spring forest in front of me is
by then a wall of green. I've come in the Fall with a view toward
enjoying the colorful Fall foliage - and, believe me, it is spectacular.
But now, with early morning sun brightening the forest and allowing
me to see paths, scurrying rodents and flying birds, it's a whole
new landscape with promises of a closer look at life. I've never
before been one to enter forests with a sense of adventure.
Today, I did.
Sonny and I walked down the driveway, each on one end of an expandable
leash, and felt the sun on our backs as we anxiously pulled the
other toward our own way of thinking.
I expected
to see apple trees among the other saplings but none were growing
there. In this small city close to seven-miles long Greenwood
Lake, which crosses the New York-New Jersey border, there is an
orchard with 200,000 apple trees, and apples ripening for plucking
in the Fall. I've heard from my New York City friends that piling
their kids into the SUV is an autumn adventure and guarantees
apples for bobbing on Halloween and apple pie for Thanksgiving.
I wasn't so
foolhardy as to amble through the woods with head turned toward
bird watching; no, I kept my eyes on each step I took and that
was one after the other. When Sonny and I walked down the driveway
we saw it had been showered with caterpillars. This was a rite
of Spring, I'm sure, but not a pretty sight.
I peered around
trunks of trees before venturing further and heightened my awareness
as I tried to identify sounds. There were bird songs from high
up in the branches of aging trees coming back and frog-speech
near the edge of a narrow trickling of water. It was neither a
creek nor a stream.
It could have
been either, but perhaps one now clogged from an surfeit of falling
leaves as Summer gave way to autumn last year. The frogs sounded
just like the imitation I taught my children decades ago: "readit
‘n' eatit." We would start off slowly: "read it
and eat it." Then with a guttural turn to our voices, "readit'n'eatit"
would be perfect.
On this morning,
the birds provided a chorus of song. Only the bobwhite was true
to his calling. The others were not always on pitch and more often
than not, their voices were a screech rather than a melodious
whistle. The blue jays were scrappy and fighting for worms. There
is no confusion between a blue jay and a bluebird.
I would pause
to listen and Sonny would cock his head as if to say, "What,
what, you never heard a bird before?"
We backed
out of the "forest primeval," not wanting to turn our
backs to the deepening woods where I was certain a big bear could
be lurking behind a tree. My daughter had seen one foraging around
her garbage pail some months ago. I couldn't remember if you're
supposed to freeze in place, turn and run, scream, or grab a stick.
Or, perhaps, all of the above.
No,
Sonny and I held onto each end of the leash, making haste to cross
the road, get into the house, and sit in front of our window on
the world where we can see out and nothing can see in.
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