a walk in the park

writing is motion. in the strictest sense of this word, it is action of the hands and wrists, but with even a drop of imagination, writing takes on new life and becomes a movement. a movement steeped in meaning, interrogation, or distraction; one that can take on personal, political, and spiritual significance.

the experience of writing thus becomes a journey.

like any good journey, there is a destination and a plan established to get there. you plot the path and predict the sights, but, like any really good, truly delicious journey, things are flexible for the sake of joy, spontaneity, and unexpected invitations.

you must know that a plan may get you to the destination, it may even get you to all the landmarks you hope to see, but sticking to an itinerary doesn't ensure you'll enjoy your time.

sure, a plan is sometimes necessary, even for simple things—dishes, dog walks, visits with nature—that's okay. care for yourself how you must, but don't become rigid.

consider a walk:

when planning, did you think of

all the critters you'll encounter and observe?

the stream that will turn into a detour on your stroll?

the trees you'll sit beneath along the way?

you may know where you want to be, but where is the space for what is to be discovered in your effort to get there?

what if you find the most incredible and massive oak that has stood gracious and tall for centuries in this fixed spot, and the only way to commune with this particular flora is to stay put, too?

to commit,

not to motion as forward progress, but to movement as time.

as introspection.

time to ask questions. time to invite change and growth.

when you take the time to sit beneath that most incredible and massive oak, the one that has stood gracious and tall for centuries (or any tree, really, for that is the beauty of trees), you will look up and see connections and paths branching out before you. possibilities. more than you could ever follow in a day. you would have to come back to that spot for weeks, lying there looking up, to see each jutting potential and to explore it as thoroughly as you could.

even then, you would miss things.

but if you look long and carefully enough, you will see those earthen lungs breathe with an artistry and sophistication that only they can teach. a sentience that the ancients couldn't believe in unless a nymph took up residence—after all, a dryad is easier to conceive of than the vast root and mycelial networks that fill the ground and grant wisdom to the earth.

think of the life within that single tree. not only the cambium, dividing cells and causing growth, but also the fauna that call the tree home. imagine the leaves, rustled by squirrels and teeming with birds of all kinds. the insects that burrow within the bark and create nests for their innumerable offspring.

do you hear the cacophony of the organic?

can you make out the symphonic mastery of environmental order?

you're full of questions:

"where to next?"

"how do i get there?"

"why do i carry on?"

only when you quietly wait will you find your answers:

wherever,

however,

whyever

you please.

the decisions are yours to make, and yours alone, but

listen to the chitter of fallen leaves, and you might quickly find where it's sending you.

the brittle truth that these forsaken and drifting accessories keep, dangles before you—

what else can you do but follow?

scuttling down the boardwalk, they lead toward a creek.

you know it opens to the local river, which powers the hydroelectric station that keeps the city's lights on. it doesn't seem like much at first, but the greater context draws you nearer. following for a stride or two takes you to a small bridge crossing the water. it divaricates from the trail and leads toward a pavilion in the distance.

perhaps a sit?

a bench, of course, would be expected, but upon closer inspection, you see the pavilion is held up by six great stone pillars with concrete feet that plateau about twenty-four inches from the ground. bench enough. you rest on a base slab for a while, noticing the coldness, roughness, and discomfort caused by the cement beneath you. your eyes wander, and you realize what you are sheltering under—a small opening near the arch has revealed it peeking from the rooftop—a rain garden blossoming above you.

you move for a better view.

your seat isn't comfortable anyway.

in front of the structure is a remarkable patch of clover, inviting you to relax amidst its lush, emerald bed.

you accept.

as your hands caress the foliage beneath you, your head cranes across the heavens, and the colors of the garden bend to greet you. the roof is built at an angle so that any passerby might see this simple rain garden's full display of native plants and shrubbery. you begin to wonder if coneflower or dogwood would ever share the secret of their vibrance with you.

the wind returns, ensuring your senses liven, awash with sweet blooms, and

clarity.

realizations, like the ones reminding you that these plants are selected for compatibility and sown in fertile soil, then pruned and tended with the seasons, lend themselves to understanding how petals from the coneflower might produce their variant magenta or the dogwood its impossible white.

beauty aside,

you can see each species in the garden is chosen for a reason. they offer:

resilience to harsh climates and dry or wet seasons,

the ability to filter rainwater and prevent erosion,

and a habitat rich in biodiversity.

a yellowthroat erupts from the switchgrass in the flowerbed and launches toward the sky. it dips swiftly, as if following erratic prey, then gently levels its flight and floats to some distant end you cannot see.

you do, however, see that the sun is setting.

you become aware of the hours that have passed and that

you are nowhere near your intended destination; in fact,

you are much further away than when you started. but,

you will return—again and again, you think—because of how much

you gained, but also because of what

you lose if you don't.

you are equally struck by the immutable importance of these secondary pursuits and the profound miracle of having made time with each of them.

you certainly couldn't have planned all of that.

****

this piece is an entry for gabriel's generous unofficial challenge, which asks us to write a poem reflecting on our writing process...