Unexpected Treasures

Maybe it’s a bad habit that will someday turn my mostly normal spinal column into something akin to scoliosis just by the very virtue of the repetitive downward angle by which my face points while I walk, but honestly, if you never look around while you walk, how on earth are you supposed to find the glory?

I never go outside and walk about without my eyes being glued to the ground below my feet, with special attention to parking lots and curb sides. They are gold mines, what with all the people passing by with holes in their pockets.

Let me explain. I’m sure you’ve heard the stories involving people finding coins in strange places and situations since their loved ones have passed. Well, that, in a nutshell is why I never miss an opportunity to look down everywhere I go. It’s like striking literal ‘love-sent-from-Heaven’ gold in the form of a coin. There are treasures to be found everywhere, of all kinds, if you look. So far, I’ve come across $1.65 in the form of nickels, dimes, and quarters in the 5 years I’ve been wise to this. That might not seem like much, but if you break it down it’s 10 dimes, 2 quarters, and 3 nickels. That’s 15 messages from “up there” that make me smile, and offer up an indescribable warm sparkle throughout my body.

I don’t spend them. Whenever I find one, I express gratitude, then when I get the offering home, I have a special hand-crafted box in which they all reside. I’m guessing by the time I leave this world, I’ll probably have upwards of $35.00! I’m optimistic that if I sat down to calculate that, it’d be a fabulous amount of messages sent to me from above. I’m telling you it’s worthwhile to look around while you walk. Trust me.

The best though, and the reason for this story, was the day I didn’t even know my life would change. I had been in a dramatic funk and needed some quiet time and space, so I went for a solitary and sensational shamble through one of the lesser known trails in my city. The ground was soft, with pine needles and leaves layering the dirt below, creating a certain insulating accommodation for my feet and a buffering sensation that pleased my ears. The smell of the ripened forest on either side of me was musky and mature as the leaves had become brilliant shades of yellows, oranges and burgundies. If you stood still and, for a moment held your breath, you could hear the passionate cacophony of wildlife that skittered amongst the branches, calling this wonderland their home. How lucky to have such a beautiful place to be just within the outskirts of the city. When there, one can’t help but notice the banditry of chickadees which frolic about, almost seeming to follow you as you meander. Or the squirrels which take every opportunity to scold you for getting too close to their hidden winter stash. And let’s not forget about the Canadian Geese which land in droves along the still open parts of the river while making their way south. If there were a Heaven on earth, would it not be there? I’d recently heard of this new concept to re-balance yourself called “forest-walking” and it made me giggle, because I’d been coming here as long as I could remember. If only I’d have thought of naming my outing and marketing it, I’d be the millionaire by now, not “them”. I could write a whole story on the “them’s” and “they’s” who make all of the decisions in life but that’s a digression.

The path takes roughly an hour and 15 minutes if you go at a normal walking pace. Of course, a jogger can complete it within 40 minutes, a stroller would take upwards of an hour and a half, and a sprinter wouldn’t finish it at all. A photographer would probably walk half way and then get completely glued to the spot where the trees open up to the river below, and a well trodden wildlife trail weaves its way down to the water’s edge, hoping to catch a glimpse of the fox that lives in the area, or the urban deer that are well known to the city. I suppose you receive whatever expectation you put into your surroundings when you set out. I always set out to find peace and become “reset”.

This particular day, I craved stillness and rejuvenation. I had hoped not to see another single living soul on my walk. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts, and really allow my every sense to tingle with the enticement that is this exquisite forest. When I arrived at the trailhead, I was elated to see no other cars, hear no other people, and see no freshly tracked footprints along the undisturbed forest floor. This particular day, I had no expectation of finding a coin. I had no expectations at all, except to let go of the work week and welcome a fresh outlook on the one ahead. The walk started out perfectly, with an autumn crispness that made everything seem brighter and fresher, while still allowing the warmth of the sun to caress my cheeks. “How blessed am I?” I thought. The bench which beckoned me was a little passed the halfway mark, and normally I would just have walked by, but today, the bliss was too rewarding. I just wanted to bask in it a little while longer, so I decided to sit down.

It was one of those awkward wooden park benches. You know… the kind where the seat falls a bit too far downward at the front so you feel like you’ll slide off if you don’t brace yourself, and the back is a bit too rounded to feel the right kind of support. Sometimes I sit on the top of the back, with my feet on the seat, but not this day. This day I indulged in laying down, selfishly and imposingly, taking up the entire thing, just in case anyone else DID happen to show up and want a piece of my solitude. Laying there for a while, eyes closed, I lost track of time. It was still daylight when I reopened my eyes, and I hadn’t been mugged or even bothered in the slightest, so I was in no rush. I decided to study the lines of the bench instead of rushing to get up and walk on. The weather-worn two-by-fours had fallen victim to youthful lovers carving their initials and hearts into the wood. I spotted a peace sign, a happy face, and a phallus (worth a chuckle). Someone had taken the time to etch a rather simplistic ‘squirrel-with-acorn’ masterpiece onto the top left corner. But the one thing that struck me above all else as I followed the horizontal lines that were separated by merely a half an inch was the object in the bend of the bench where the seat met the inadequate back. I don’t know how it escaped my vision as I approached the bench to begin with, but when I came out of my meditative state, there it was, almost as bright as a nickel-plated steel coin would have been. There, stuffed in the boards, sat a commanding little black book. On the front, a monogram: “TW”. Inside, I would have expected it to be some sort of phone book, but instead, it was a journal and art book. As I flipped through the pages, I scoured the entries for some sort of identification that would lead me to its owner, but there was nothing of the sort. Just page after page of random thoughts, drawings that could be described as stuck moments in time but having almost intimate detail of the subject matter, and then on the inside of the back cover: a carefully affixed key. I have to say, a little wave of excitement and intrigue flushed through me, though I couldn’t explain why. After all, with no way to get the book back to the owner, there was no way to tell what or where the key might be for. I studied every single page in detail, and at the end of it, I decided that it was far too important to just leave there. I had to figure out a way to get it back into the hands of the owner… but how? I decided to tear a still blank page from the book and with the pen that I always carried with me, wrote a note. I folded it so I could jam it into the precise spot the little black book was plucked from. On the note I simply wrote: “Book found. Key intact. Text 555-7234 to identify pages and retrieve the masterpiece.”

For the rest of my walk, I felt a distinct sense of elation, as though I’d somehow accidentally stumbled into some delightful portal to a place of mystery and intrigue that I’d only ever been privy to in my dreams. This time as I walked, my head was still firmly planted in the downward looking position, but it was buried in the pages of the artist’s book. I felt a small tug of envy, as the thoughts and drawings seemed so deep and meaningful to whomever it was that did them. I tried to determine what the composer must have been feeling on the day of each page, trying to piece together some narrative that might help me to find them. I could not. By the end of my trail, I still hadn’t seen another soul; there were still no tracks, no cars in the parking lot, and no other sounds of civilization. So I pocketed the book and drove home. That night, I put the book next to the crafted coin box on my dresser and felt overwhelmingly thankful for the experience of the day.

Five weeks passed and as I left work after an exhausting day, the familiar sound of a text came in. It read: “To the holder of my key, I have received your note! Thank you for finding my journal. I have anguished over its loss and have tirelessly retraced my steps. On the 20th page, you will see an image of a woman’s face, half in shadows, with flowing hair and an unmistakable glow surrounding her.”

The unexpected text took my breath away. After these five weeks of the comings and goings of daily life, I had completely forgotten about the journal! I couldn’t wait to get home and flip through to the 20th page! Once home, I jolted up the stairs, grabbed the journal and started counting. 1, 2, 3… 18, 19, and there it was: the woman, on the 20th page. Stunning, her portrait sung with the sparkle depicted in her eyes, and the flowing hair made her seem like a goddess.

With a single text back and forth, we agreed to meet on the bench the following day to return the book. He asked my name, but he wouldn’t give me his, aside from saying his initials were “TW”. I went alone, as did he. Seeing him approach, I was all a flutter, as it was like meeting an old friend for the first time. Many years beyond me in age, he quietly sat down, looked into my eyes and with a tear in his, handed me a folded piece of paper. He simply said, “You have reacquainted me with the single most important object I have ever possessed, and for that, I sincerely thank you.” He held my hand with an energy transferring tightness and then stood up and walked away. I watched until I couldn’t see trace of him, and then glanced down to unfold the paper. It was a cheque for $20,000 with “For My Angel” in the memo line.

The End