I’m watching the sunrise, preparing for my walk, boots on, between moments, when I am struck by an interesting coincidence in timing. It is Lent for many Christian observers. It is also the time of year many gardeners know as “the hungry gap”, that time between the last of the winter crops, and before the earliest Spring crops are ready, and during which there is little fresh produce available. (I pause to appreciate what an amazing thing a global supply chain and supermarket produce actually is for humanity.) It’s interesting timing that Lent happens to occur – with its ritual fasting – right at the time when the food supply is likely to be at its least plentiful. I don’t have anything to say about that. I just think it’s interesting.
I set off down the trail, walking with my thoughts. There’s work to do in the garden. The neighborhood feral cat that menaced my garden for the past four years died during the winter. My Spring garden (so far) is undisturbed by constant digging and cat shit, for which I am grateful. It vexed me having to deal with that. It bodes well for the flower beds, too. I proposed putting in a second raised bed this year and my Traveling Partner seems open to the idea. I mentally calculate the cost of the lumber, and the soil to fill it… These are times when there is profound benefit to growing as much of our own food as we can. I’m grateful to have that option.
I sit with my garden thoughts at the halfway point of my walk, enjoying the chill of a Spring morning and the solitary luxury of having the trail to myself. A small herd of deer step past me quietly. I pretend I don’t see them, and avoid sudden movements. This is a lovely moment and I savor it. I’m not in any hurry. The overcast morning sky is streaked with blue-gray clouds. It’s doesn’t feel like rain, it’s just a rather gray morning, now. Geese and ducks drift quietly on the marsh ponds. Nutria go about their business at the edges.
I walk on.
I stop later, it’s a longish walk, and sit for a little while on a fallen oak. It’s a nice spot to rest. Not much of a view; scrub grass cluttered with sparse oaks, horizon obscured by nearby trees and brambles. I’m near the river, but I don’t hear it as it flows by quietly. I only hear the geese overhead, and the sound of distant traffic on the highway at the edge of the park. Robins ignore me, as they pick through the leaves left behind by autumn, looking for a bit of breakfast.
I sit quiet, aware, observing. Sometimes it’s enough to simply be, here, now. I don’t really need more. This is enough. I sigh quietly, contentedly. I enjoy the moment, the birdsong, the soft breeze, and the feeling of contentment and joy. I linger here awhile, understanding that moments are fleeting, and this one will pass. That’s okay. Still worth being here for it.
I’ve got a list of things to do, later. I get up, stretch, and brush off my jeans. It’s time to walk on. It’s time to begin again.
Evening Light 