Sunday, August 9, 2009

Never too old to go out and play

It took my husband and I fifteen minutes to get to Goose Pond on our bikes, but I was much farther away than that from dirty laundry, unreconcilled bank accounts, and toothpaste splattered sinks.

I passed through a door when I entered the forested trail around the edge of a round pound. I was no longer a middle aged woman with a to-do list that could occupy a team of six.

I was seven years old. I pranced over exposed tree roots, jumped over puddles, hopped rock to rock across streams.

I was clever. I stalled to contemplate crossing wet, mucky stretches of trail, certain I had found a better route than all who had passed before me.

I was a goddess. I stepped out onto a slanted rock that overlooked the sparkling pond. I was on stage before the reflective water framed in blue sky and green trees. I stretched my arms out to the sky feeling the sun’s warmth on my face. Not tired, burdened, or stressed, I felt alive.

I was brave. I ventured into unchartered ways along the shoreline, discovering a fallen tree across a section of pond. I took a deep breath and stepped on board, placing one foot in front of the other. One-third of the way across, I called out to my husband, “I don’t know if I can do this. I shouldn’t be carrying my new cell phone.”

“It probably wasn’t such a good idea,” he replied. “You do have vertigo.”

“That was not the right answer,” I said. “I can do this. I will do this,” I said. I safely crossed to the other side.

I was an artist. On one of the few wooden bridges over bubbling brooks, I stopped to employ all my senses. My eyes scanned the many shades of green: vibrant glowing mosses, saturated warm maple leaves, and cool blue spruce needles. My skin felt the cool refreshing air rising from the brook. I could even taste the damp, dewy cool. My ears took in the rushing of water over rocks as it hurried past itself to the pond. I wanted to memorize it.

I was a naturalist. Stopping sharply mid-bounce, I landed softly and crouched slowly. A beaver was about a yard away from me chewing a green branch in the water. His big warm brown eyes and wide cheeks made me smile inside and out. His wide flat tail floating behind him, never rising to slap the water in warning, as I slowly passed him.

I was defiant. When we got to the cement damn where water runs across a wide flat stretch, I crossed the shallow flow in a march, purposely splashing as I went.

I was fulfilled. I got back on my bike muddier, sweatier, and wetter than before. The next door I crossed was into my house.

“Emily dropped the big bottle of brand new dishwashing liquid and the top broke off and it is all over the kitchen floor,” Maggie announced. In the same breath, without pausing a millisecond, “Can I go downtown with Min then to Hoffies with her and Grace so we can all go to the movies and sleep over Kelsey’s? Will you give us rides right now?” she asked.

By taking time for me, I was better able to be me.

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