A day that begins with a walk in the world--breathing cold air as it sneaks up your sleeves trying unsuccessfully to discourage you--is a day that will be good, no matter what happens later. Sharing the walk with a sentient companion, someone whose humor reaches out to make you laugh, whose bright intellect challenges you, makes the walk (and the day) even better.
There is something about walking, hearing the sounds of ducks and geese, or even the less inspiring sounds of trucks and jackhammers, that opens all your senses to this new day, this new opportunity to live and to learn. This morning's walk was colored by a bluebird on a branch empty of leaves, unconcerned that winter has not yet allowed the buds of spring to come forth.
We walk from our tiny town's arcade along the boardwalk, noting and commenting on the mudflats and shallow pools left because the lake level is down for seawall repairs. It's interesting to see the bottom of the bay, usually hidden in several feet of opaque blue water. Among the branches and tree stumps is a lone shoe, a woman's flat stained by the mud, but retaining its feminine curves, its touch of delicate construction meant to embellish a small foot within rather than the twig-strewn dirt surrounding it now.
All those images, those sounds and even the smell of leaves burning along the shoreline where cleanup is going on, all of those collected sensory pleasures will remain with me this day. They have set the mood, not to be dispelled by the gathering clouds and the wintry mix forecast for later. They have prepared me to find both the beauty that is esthetically pleasing and the beauty in that which is dirty or grating or acrid.
There is something about walking, hearing the sounds of ducks and geese, or even the less inspiring sounds of trucks and jackhammers, that opens all your senses to this new day, this new opportunity to live and to learn. This morning's walk was colored by a bluebird on a branch empty of leaves, unconcerned that winter has not yet allowed the buds of spring to come forth.
We walk from our tiny town's arcade along the boardwalk, noting and commenting on the mudflats and shallow pools left because the lake level is down for seawall repairs. It's interesting to see the bottom of the bay, usually hidden in several feet of opaque blue water. Among the branches and tree stumps is a lone shoe, a woman's flat stained by the mud, but retaining its feminine curves, its touch of delicate construction meant to embellish a small foot within rather than the twig-strewn dirt surrounding it now.
All those images, those sounds and even the smell of leaves burning along the shoreline where cleanup is going on, all of those collected sensory pleasures will remain with me this day. They have set the mood, not to be dispelled by the gathering clouds and the wintry mix forecast for later. They have prepared me to find both the beauty that is esthetically pleasing and the beauty in that which is dirty or grating or acrid.
To paraphrase Shakespeare, "there are tongues in trees, sermons in stone, diamonds in dirt and good in everything."
[Photo: A filled Lake Lure by Mike Lumpkin, taken on a day not so frosty]
Wow, my sweet wife continues to amaze and amuse me. You go girl.
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