Months ago…
He walks quickly, the
bulging pockets of his cargo pants swaying as he moves. He is one of many by the
river. Some run, others walk, mothers push strollers, old men fish, children
ride their bikes. This man moves with a purpose, his pace brisk and determined.
A cap is pulled low over his eyes, a scowl twists his mouth. Ordinarily I
wouldn’t give him a second thought among the many others I pass. Suddenly,
though, ahead of me, he swerves off the paved path onto the grass. In a perfect
movement that appears to be rehearsed, planned, repeated, his hand dips into
his pocket and he stoops towards the ground. There, from its perch at the base
of a tree- a gray squirrel. They move at the same time, in a moment that speaks
of expectation. He hands over the nut from his pocket that the squirrel is
already reaching for. Neither of them stop or even pause but fluidly return to
their original paths. The exchange only took a moment, neither man nor squirrel
breaking pace. It was over so quickly I think I may have imagined it, so
unnatural did it seem. I wonder how they knew. Did they anticipate the other
would be there? Was this particular squirrel a friend? Such a simple act but so
trusting. And so beautifully unexpected, at least for me.
It is one of those mornings I wait the whole year for. It is
the first morning I need long pants. I am warm but the air feels cool on my
face. The river smells fresh this morning, which is a nice change from the hot
staleness of it in the summer. The sun is on the water, a beautiful million lights
flashing. I can breathe. It's why I come. To breathe. Most days it's also to
run. To work and sweat, to push myself and go as far and as hard as possible. Not
today. It's too calm, too quiet, too perfectly poised in this moment between summer
and fall when I'm ready for a change, when things feel like they're turning
over. Today I'll just walk, feel the air, breathe, look for peace. My instinct,
sadly, is to do what I do when I run. List things in my head. Errands, shopping
lists, worries, failures, problems. The stresses of ‘Oh-I-wish,’ ‘If-only,’ ‘Maybe-I-could-just,’
‘I-never-have-time-to,’ and ‘What-will-people-think.’ The stresses that everyone has. I usually take this time to try
and rearrange, organize my thoughts, force the worst of it back down and
figure out how to keep moving forward, day after day, going through my life.
It's a pessimist’s exercise. One who is constantly trying to do better, to think cleaner,
to wish for greater thoughts, to not be blind to the bright side.
But not today. Optimism came in with the fall weather, if
only for a morning. Today I think of things I am grateful for. Things I have
now that I used to long for. People who love me. Plans that inspire me. The
life I am living, choosing to live,
want to live. The power to move myself forward. This walk by the river that I
love.
I wonder about the people I pass. I wonder how their
hardships compare to mine. I wonder if this river represents peace to them, or
escape, or motivation, or joy- whether they are running or strolling or sitting
on a bench with their coffee. I watch two dog owners approach each other. They
chat politely. The dogs greet each other with a sniff and then lay in the
grass, noses touching, as comfortable as old friends and I envy them for just a
second. I look out at the river. The sun silhouettes a bird on the water. From
where I stand it seems to be a swan. But I’ve never seen a swan on this river.
Only the endless march of ducks and geese, common as rain. I can see the
perfect curve of its neck, imagine the snowy whiteness of its feathers, the
black jet of its beak. The bird moves towards the edge of the sun’s glare and I
know if I keep watching, it will reveal its true identity in a moment. I look
away and keep walking, at peace.
This morning…
I recognize him from
the stooping movement. Same determined pace, same scowling countenance, same
bent exchange in the grass next to the path. He straightens and swerves back on
course as the squirrel runs back towards his tree. I want to ask him. Curiosity
is strong. One particular squirrel? Scheduled meeting place? Why only one nut?
But then, as soon as the first squirrel arrives home, another from a tree further
down the path emerges. Scoop, swerve, reach. But this one has climbed the back
of a bench and perches there, hands outstretched. The man carefully places the
nut in its hands and keeps walking with hardly a pause. The squirrel stands so
still, and watches him walk away.
