Walking Thoughts

 
As the pastel winter morning develops into a brilliant blue day, I walk the path around the field across from my house. Such a sea of sparkles; it’s like treading on galaxies. The wind-blown edge of a patch of polished ice reveals individual crystalline structures, and I realize my every step is crushing a thousand unique works of art.

Flocks of sparrows have gathered to pluck seeds from places where the path is exposed. My boots stamp out their tiny prints - evidence of an earlier party. Further on, my presence disturbs their current meeting. They disperse in a flurry, quietly chirping plans amongst themselves of a safer place to congregate.

Pristine snow reaches towards the clear blue sky, their touch prevented by a grey-brown layer of buildings and chimney smoke, and I sense that I come from a long line of destroyers. I am the boorish guest, thundering in with my dirty boots and clumsy arms, breaking the good china, insulting the host, and leaving a stink in my wake.

But the horses and crows observe me without animosity, just still indifference. I guess we’re all part of this scene, a curiosity here to enjoy. A fresh layer of snow or a puff of wind can erase my careless footprints. And my noticing the beauty doesn’t make it any more beautiful or bestow any special value. It is already very good. But every artist delights in sharing his creation. I’m simultaneously humbled and elevated.

I find that nearly every walk provides an extra special gift, when I walk with my eyes open. At night it’s often a shooting star or shadows cast on moonlight. Today it’s a surprise fly-by: big black wings with flashes of white, tiny dazzling glimpses of red. A pileated woodpecker. An infrequent sighting here, and I’ve never witnessed the drama of one in flight.

I stop in my tracks, breathe a “whoa!”, and enjoy the show.

Then with a smile and a thanks, turn towards home.