On
this cool fall morning I am part of a group attending a Nature Write class at
Indian Springs MetroPark. It is my
second class. After some discussion of
the readings, our assignment is to take a half hour or so to walk out into
nature, choose a path or let a path choose us, find a place that speaks to us,
ask permission to be there observing, listening, watching—just being. Be quiet in our space and let it speak to
us, whatever its voice.
I’m
feeling shy and uncertain today.
Self-consciously I turn from the group and begin to walk away. Most often drawn to the cover of the woods,
today I am drawn to a grassy hill, specifically to the lone bench sitting empty
at the top. I follow a path keeping
the bench in my sight, but also scanning the grasses alongside me. A tiny pink aster peeks around a blade of
grass, seems to nod to another lone flower, this one a yellow daisy. A gentle breeze blows and the daisy turns
its back. A fly buzzes. Ahead of me is a stone wall—beyond the wall
a garden, its summer colors fading and dry, golden brown taking over—and beyond
the garden the hill. I stop, lean on
the wall and silently ask for permission to come into this space, to listen and
observe—to learn with my heart. Closing
my eyes, I wait for an answer. Opening
my eyes, I’m drawn again to the lone bench sitting against the background of
blue sky, waiting. Two lone geese fly
overhead, leaving some space in their togetherness. A silver plane drones across the broad nearly cloudless sky. I breathe the freshness of the morning air;
stop to marvel at the sparkle of dewdrops on patches of grass. A spider web glistens.
I have my answer
as I’m led on a path around the side of the hill to another wall, a circular
stone wall. Beyond the wall, a
pond. Not to the woods, not to the
hill, not to the pond. Enter the
circle. Be quiet. Watch.
Wait. I enter, sit on the wall,
close my eyes and feel the warmth of the sun on my face and chest. A cool breeze caresses my back and
shoulders. I open my eyes and again
notice the bench at the top of the hill, the cluster of small trees part way
down the hill, and at my feet a stone circle in the center of the larger
circular wall. Wild flowers, some might
call them weeds, emerge from the cracks in the stone. How strong and courageous they are to grow in such a place,
merging their green life with a life of dry fragile sticks and hard stones.
Again
my gaze looks up at the bench at the top of the hill. I’m tempted to climb, but there’s not enough time, I think. The time for climbing is past. The time for following steep, winding paths
to see what’s on the other side holds less attraction for me these days. Today my explorations take me closer to home. I have often chosen the path less
traveled. Today I again chose a path
less traveled as I move inward toward my heart
