When Geese Dream

By Patrick J. Walsh

Warmth, in the sun; warm and water all-encompassing. The slightest of movements in the air, a slight stirring, and the smallest waft of scent, redolent of the most vivid moments of the past.

The day is quiet. The water spreads out, still, warm, flat from breast to shore, even and calm. She swims nearby in his dreams, and the days of the little ones remain before him as though painted on the air.

He dreams of her now, only dreams, in the long time of sunshine in the slowness of the warm afternoon.

At the rear of the line, the soft squish of the mud beneath; plodding behind the little ones, comical in their blonde tufts of cover. She at the front, always, showing the way for them. And for him.

The brightness of the afternoon, the lull of the sweet aroma in the heavenly scent; quiet, still. And no need to move. The water clear, and still.

As in the seasons the warm brings the cold and the cold the warm, the quiet of the afternoon returns him briefly to the busy time of the crèche, in that one season when she and he grouped with the others to care for all their little ones together.

It had been a time of great noise. There was frequent excitement, with the little ones sometimes quarreling over bits of things, and occasionally the others quarreling, too. But it had been a good time overall.

It had been a good time, and it was good in his dreams. The time seemed to have moved quickly past, but now, in his dreams, it seemed as though it may have passed more slowly.

In the warmth and the brightness, now, he saw his own little ones back then as distinct from the others; they moved along together, in a small bunch that only she and he could immediately see as separate from the others.

They were the third group that she and he had had together. It had been early in their time together. There were many little ones, over all the time they had been together. That time was the only time they had joined with the others.
 

With all the little ones they had had together, she had always been there, leading. Always leading.

Again in the soft warmth of the afternoon, with the sweet moisture in the air, she was there, as he dreamed. He dreamed in the warmth of the sunshine, with the water all-encompassing, and together they saw all the little ones, one group after another, and it was good.

She was there, and it was good.

© Patrick J. Walsh

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The Cicada Song

By Patrick J. Walsh

Walking in the park near twilight in these early days of Spring, when the shadows stretch deeply onto the far bank of the pond, it is difficult to miss the odd humming sound in the air.

The unmistakable murmur of cicadas in the midst of their mating ritual, the droning buzz rushes out across the surface of the water like a swarm of bees passing through a hollow log.

 

It is an evocative music, the cicada song. For the wanderer in the park, it recalls magical nights of summers long past, and the hidden joy of sudden encounters with the living presence of nature in the midst of a warm summer's evening.

In the case of the insects themselves, however, the humming represents the soundtrack of a brief, remarkable cycle of life that bespeaks both the wisdom and the wonder of nature's strange logic.

While "annual" varieties of cicadas appear every year, the particular insects now in the park are most probably of the Magicicada genus — the so-called "periodical" cicadas.

These cicadas live underground for a period of 13 or 17 years, and then emerge in massive numbers for a brief mating period before they die, leaving their progeny to begin again the long cycle of nurture underground.

The sound of the cicada's song is produced by the rapid vibration of membranes on the insect's abdomen. The vibration of the membranes, which are properly known as tymbals, produces a chirping that is then amplified by chambers within the creature's respiratory system. Male cicadas "sing" the song in large choruses to attract females.

In accordance with the science of the identification system devised by entomologist C. L. Marlatt in 1907, the insects in the park are most likely Brood II cicadas, of the 17-year variety.

It is the poetry of their appearance, however, that leaves a lasting impression. After 17 years underground — a period in which the human world routinely sees the utter transformation of leading personalities and technologies and societies — these tiny creatures struggle upward through a foot or more of soil to emerge, all at once, in the still-chilly air of the early hintings of summer.

They spend their brief time on the surface in the pursuit of a mate, in the interest of ensuring the propagation of their species. Then, after a period of several weeks to several months, their course is run, and their song withers to the last few chirrups of those who remain at the end, like the sound of a valiant heart drumming its last in the moments before death.

As all falls silent, the purpose of the cicadas' brief time on the surface is accomplished in the production and hatching of their eggs, ensuring the promise of a new generation.

The newborn nymphs fall like raindrops from the twigs where the eggs were laid, and upon landing on grass or soil, they burrow downward, to begin another long cycle of life underground.

Meanwhile, their song sung, the adult cicadas die off. The tone and timbre of their particular sound vanishes once more from the landscape, hidden away in the dust of the Earth and the promise of their descendants, not to be heard again until the first chilly days of Spring, 17 years on...

© Patrick J. Walsh

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The Song of Summer

By Patrick J. Walsh

Tentative, faint; echoing in the sweetness of the memories they invoke and aching in the evanescent traces of the comfort they promise, the sounds of summer are in the park these days.

This is the first of Spring, in its early bloom, when the weather routinely betrays the best impulses of the seasons.

Surfaced from memory, whispers of bright, gentle mornings and soft afternoons tug at my tired soul, and I pull my jacket close against the coolness of the day.

As I set out, the weak, scattered sunlight shares only a hollow warmth. Farther along, I wander beneath clouds heavy with rain, and crosswinds jostle at my arms and legs, indifferent to my progress.

In the open area near the lake, the sputtering folds of wind recall the "hup-hup-hup" of a little boy approximating a primitive flute by blowing across the neck of an open soda bottle.

On the far side of the water, in the chill darkness beneath the cover of the canopy of trees, the cicadas are fooled into an early burst of song.

Their staccato melody echoes across the windy surface of the lake like an invocation, bringing golden remembrance of the hushed tones of quiet exchanges in the twilight of warm days past.

There is not yet the flutter of leaves on branches touched by the tiny limbs of birds; nor is there the bright splash of a fish struggling down the stream toward the lake; nor the hum of insects flashing along the trail at the edge of the paved road.

But there are the sounds of ancient campfires: the pop and hiss of burning twigs, their tiny flames nurtured by the coaxing breath of some long ago mother or father, while the squeals of delighted children echo nearby.

And with my eyes gently closed, paused in my forward progress by some intimation of welcome, I hear the murmur of the woods calling out through the sultry stillness of a summer night, and the wordless yearning of a wish made in silence at the sight of a star falling from the summer sky.

In the park, on a chilly day in Spring, the cicadas hum, and in the breath of the wind, I hear the sounds of summer.

© Patrick J. Walsh

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The Hare and the Bear

By Patrick J. Walsh

As I walk by, unaware of their doings, a small group of animals gathers in an open patch of grass in the woods, a short distance from the edge of the paved road in the park.

They are discussing their upcoming spring play — a rollicking presentation based on The Knight's Tale, from Geoffrey Chaucer's Canterbury Tales.

The largest of the group, obviously in charge of the production, is a small bear. He surveys the collection of dramatis personae and, in a quiet aside to his assistant — a large hare — he begins to run down the list of roles and the animals necessary to fulfill them:

"So we've got the owl to play Theseus and the ground hog for Aegeus, and the three deer for Palamon and Arcite and Emily —"

"Yes, yes," the hare replies, impatient. "But I've already told you, it's not the character roles you have to worry about. I'm worried about the background players — like for instance, who will play the magical forest creatures who scurry away when the trees are cut down for Arcite's funeral pyre?"

The bear replies with a sigh and a wave of his paw — a gesture that, while unintentional in its effect, nonetheless causes the hare to dodge quickly out of the way.

"Not this again — again with the trees?"

"Well it's important," the hare persists. "It makes a huge impact on an audience, how the background is constructed. If we're going to have magical creatures and trees being cut down, we need to think about that."

"All right, all right. So who do you want for the trees?"

"Well it depends on what kind of tree —"

Growing impatient, the bear brings his paw down heavily on a small clump of wizened sod, sending a loud ‘whump’ off echoing among the slanted rays of sunlight scattered through the woods.

“Okay then,” he responds, obviously trying to stay his annoyance, “what kind of tree? For instance?”

For his part, the hare responds with the first small sign of a smile, the corners of his tiny mouth quivering slightly as he asks:

"Well, a dogwood, for example. I mean, who can we get to play a good dogwood? What sort of an animal will be willing to play a dogwood tree?"

Utterly unaware that he is being led toward a punchline, the bear wearily re-traces the hare's rhetorical question in the sprightly wind of the lovely spring afternoon:

"I don't know… what sort of animal would make a good dogwood tree?"

Tittering slightly while taking a beat — and carefully moving himself several steps away from his much-larger friend — the hare responds:

"Well… a dog would."

And somewhere, some half a mile or so away, I stop suddenly in the midst of my walk, certain that I hear something… something, oddly enough, that sounds sort of like a large hare, laughing hysterically, and a small bear, moaning indulgently.

As the sounds fade, I wonder how I’ve come to think of Chaucer and his Tales, as I wander along the edge of the woods, eyeing the rough bark of the dogwoods on this fine sunny afternoon in the park.

* * *

Did you know?: The oldest existing reference to the dogwood tree in an English language manuscript is found in “The Knight’s Tale,” from Geoffrey Chaucer’s fourteenth century masterpiece The Canterbury Tales (although it is referenced therein in various iterations by its earlier moniker, the archaic “whippletree,” or as “cornel,” which is a variant of the scientific name for its genus, Cornus).

© Patrick J. Walsh

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At the Side of the Road

By Patrick J. Walsh

Today, as I trekked along my daily path in the park near my home, these days of Easter week brought to mind one of my favorite stories from the Bible: the description of the risen Christ walking with the disciples on the road to Emmaus (Luke 24; 13-35).

The park often inspires me to reflect on sacred things, as its beauty transcends the effects of the heavy use it endures due to its location in a densely populated suburban area.

In the brief struggles of its smallest living creatures, as well as the vast slow turning of sky and wind and time that shapes even the largest of its sturdy trees and stone slopes, the park does, after all, know the particulars of life and death.

As I walked today, I thought of how Cleopas and the other disciple in the biblical account were joined on their journey by the stranger who they initially failed to recognize.

Making their way forward in his company, they burst forth with vivid accounts of the events that have led up to the Crucifixion, and they ponder the details of the first reports of the Resurrection. All the while, they have no idea that they are talking to the central figure of the events they are describing.

In the midst of my reflections, I stepped to the side of the paved road as a big red SUV rumbled by, revealing in its rush a mere glimpse of the bike pinioned to its rear door. A few minutes later, it rolled back down the road in the opposite direction, leading me to again step aside.

Walking the ancient road with their unknown companion, the disciples displayed an uncanny exuberance while recounting the events at the heart of their disappointment and sorrow.

I sometimes imagine the vague outline of a smile on the Holy countenance, as Jesus listened patiently to the worries of his companions before explaining to them how his life and death fit into the pattern of religious prophecy and the promise of human history.

In the park in these days of Easter twenty one centuries later, we speed past those gifts that serve as expressions of a larger wisdom, as we pass every treasure of wizened tree or turbid pond or clouded sky, lost in the frustrations and sadness of our own modern journey.

And sometimes as I walk, I wonder at all we might be missing when we fail to recognize the nature of all that accompanies us, as we make our way along the road each day.

© Patrick J. Walsh

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A Walk in the Park: Patience

By Patrick J. Walsh

Cold wet darts of ice lashed at my coat as I pushed a thick wrap of snow off the hood of my car.

The storm had come late to this long, weary winter, and its intensity seemed an almost personal affront to those of us who have had cause enough already for sadness and struggle during these difficult days.

Fortunately, the sleet portion of the storm wound its way to exhaustion as the morning hours faded into the afternoon, and I made my way to the park as the day neared its end.

And then, as I walked in the sunlight, the glory of nature’s wise progress traced its line on my mind and spirit. 

Reflected off the clean carpet of snow, the light of the sun danced with a sparkling radiance, like a sprite in a tale once whispered by the very old to the very young.

And in an arc of water at the edge of the icy lid of the upper pond, the warmth of the sun opened a dappled window on the life of the fish and flora of the murky world below the surface.

The chill of the morning had given way to timid, tentative warmth; and in every yard of fading, melting snow there was witness to the passing of this long, exhausting winter.

 

As I made my way along my usual path, thinking of the progress of the day — from the sad, cold rain of morning to the hopeful, mild sunlight of the afternoon — I could not help but be overwhelmed by gratitude for the unfailing mechanisms of patience. 

One small soul grateful for the unanticipated mercy of a warm afternoon in March, I make my way forward through hard days one short stride at a time.

The larger life of the park, meanwhile, moves on with a majesty and radiance that is amplified by the incongruity of weather out of time, and indicative of nature’s stoic resolve, in the passing of day to day, and season to season.

© Patrick J. Walsh

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A Walk in the Park: Today

By Patrick J. Walsh

Today I walked in the park.

It has been nearly two and a half months since my Mom passed away, and today was the first day since her passing that I have been able to walk in the park.

Although I was by myself, I did not feel alone. It seemed as though I might be walking a bit slower than I have in the past, but that may have been an artifact of the emotions involved, or simply the result of my lingering reacquaintance with the pleasantness of my surroundings.

  

As I walked, my mind was awash in the notion of what it would be like to live a life of pure spirit. Unencumbered by the infirmities of age or illness or the limitations of this physical existence, the life of the spirit could be open to the experience of all good things, immediately, without reservation.

Following a physical life of faith and joy and the preparation born of the sharing of one’s experiences and treasure without hesitation, the life of the spirit seems a logical extension of a will well exercised in gratitude and service.

In recent days, the exhilaration of this line of thought has helped to temper the sadness of my grieving, and given rise to the kind of hope that sustains mourner and mystic alike.

In this time of Lenten temperance, it is a hope whose comfort is familiar to me, having been a part of all the Easters of my childhood, and a defining characteristic of my Holy Week preparations as an adult.

I walked in the park today. I was by myself, but I did not feel alone.

It is nice to know that we can walk together again, free of the limitations of age and infirmity and illness.

My steps are a little slower than they once were, my progress a little less than it will one day be. But it is good to walk again, and to not be alone.

© Patrick J. Walsh

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Celebration

There is an affinity among these leaves and this sky and these beasts for the flora of the Nativity, the glow of the manger, and the story of the stable…

by Patrick J. Walsh

In the coolness of the evening, in the bright lights of the season, in the tableau with the lamb and the star, the night wind whispers a promise to the broken heart:

He will bring us goodness and light…

Sometimes when I walk in the park, I feel like the shepherd boy, listening, straining to hear the song above the trees, swelled to the bigness of the sea by a chorus of angelic voices:

He will bring us goodness and light…

© Patrick J. Walsh

In the warm embrace of nature, knowing the trees as if by name, I hear the words…

As I walk I wonder if I am doing all I might do to bring goodness to others. I think of the efficiency of earthly monarchs in reaching people everywhere with the message for which I am but the merest conveyance:

He will bring us goodness and light…

And in the warm embrace of nature, knowing the trees as if by name as well as by their botanical lineage, and aware of the animals all around, I hear the words as they echo like gold and silver bells rung on the wind, as precious as peace among men:

He will bring us goodness and light…

In the warmth of the bright summer, the fresh breath of spring, the melancholy whim of fall, and, as now, in the aching grasp of winter sadness, there is an affinity among these leaves and this sky and these beasts for the flora of the Nativity tableau, the perpetual glow of the manger, and the enduring story of the stable and the lowly animals that shared in that long ago celebration of the birth that is renewed in so many lives each December:

The Child, the Child, sleeping in the night

He will bring us goodness and light

He will bring us goodness and light

© Patrick J. Walsh

Anticipation

“The bare branches of the trees cause me 

to think of the straw of the stable…”

By Patrick J. Walsh

There are scant few days left before Christmas, and even fewer before the winter solstice. Time is short for the short days of darkness, and it feels good to anticipate the goodness and light that will arrive with the progress of nature and the promise of the spirit.

My walks in recent days have been littered with “little worries” — items on my “to do” list that are not yet done, for example; or last minute preparations that I have stubbornly refused to let wait until last minute, as though worrying would get them done sooner.

Today there is a fresh, light wind stirring the reedy limbs of some sparse evergreens near the edge of the road. The thin branches wave slightly, as if in greeting, as I walk by.

© Patrick J. Walsh

"...the reedy limbs of some sparse evergreens 

wave slightly, as if in greeting, as I walk by."

In the traditions of my religious faith, this time of year evokes images of a stable, and animals kept for domestic purposes by the keeper of an inn.

Cross-hatched gray across the darkening blue of the sky, the bare branches of the trees that surround the evergreens cause me to think of the straw of the stable, shuffled into rough shapes of nests by the beasts in whatever time they might have had free from their burden.

Not yet touched by the presence of the family that would transform it into a signal site of transformation in the course of human history, the stable was probably typical of the modest accommodation necessary to the upkeep of animals, then and now. And by all accounts of zoology and history, the inhabitants of the stable were likely similar in most details to their modern descendents.

As I walk along the edge of the woodline, I think of the similarities and differences between the animals of the stable and the creatures that inhabit the woods around the park.

They are of course different types of animals; although there are horse paths in the park, the large majority of its inhabitants are common wildlife — squirrels, deer, ducks and geese — that has little in common with any version, ancient or modern, of horse or donkey or oxen.

And yet they are all progeny of the development of nature, and they each play a productive role in the ecology of their time and place.

For those who wish to infer a spirituality in the pattern and direction of their progress, there is a winsome link of familiarity between the meek denizens of the Biblical stable and whatever creatures might be encountered in the modern nexus of metropolis and nature.

Thinking of the straw and the donkey, and the sparse evergreen and the deer, the distance in millennia and the far span of the earth from that time and place to this very spot becomes somehow less distant.

So remote from the straw and the smell and the noise of those long ago animals, yet blessed with the benefits of belief and tradition and history, I move through the park as though on pilgrimage, thinking of the family and the birth and the child that were, at this time so long ago, still on their way toward the stable…

© Patrick J. Walsh

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Driven

“I suppose there are those who would find time spent 

walking in the park an idyll they can ill afford...”

  

By Patrick J. Walsh

A patchwork rain accompanies me on my walk this afternoon, dropping chilly little pin-pricks of pure cold water in my hair and across my cheeks and nose.

I am tired. As I push myself forward through the mist, I find myself wondering at some of the things that drive people in life, and some of the things that people strive toward, in these days that are so often so difficult to understand.

Although it presents no appreciable physical hindrance, the rain weighs heavily on my mood. The dampness conspires with the rapidly approaching darkness to disturb my peace and rattle my bones, as I shiver slightly after every few strides.

© Patrick J. Walsh

"...in the wideness of perspective that is a gift of this 

setting, it often seems that I am not walking alone."

I suppose there are those who would find time spent walking in the park an idyll they can ill afford at virtually any time of year — and least of all in these very short days of preparation and observation that mark the holiday season.

I try to find time to walk in the park even on the busiest days — even when the weather is against me, and the days are appallingly short, and the chill lays heavily on my steps.

Each day, my walk accumulates time and distance, but I seldom consider my daily hike in terms of the investment of minutes or miles.

In a similar way, each day’s sojourn requires both the effort to get to and from the site as well as that which I expend during the walk itself. And again, I pay little heed to the ‘commute’ required, by foot or by car, when calculating the costs and benefits of my daily exercise.

All this evaluation brings to mind my recent re-reading of Henry David Thoreau’s “Walden” (1854):

“I grew in those seasons like corn in the night, and they were far better than any work of the hands would have been. They were not time subtracted from my life, but so much over and above my usual allowance.”

I am struggling as I near the end of my walk today. My breath is short and quicker than usual. My progress along the paved road is slow and labored.

The last upward slope before I complete my usual circuit seems somehow steeper than usual. The rain has begun to feel heavier, even though it has not, in reality, increased in intensity or volume.

My thinking has also come full-circle as I draw nearer to the lot where my car is parked. Pondering that which sometimes drives others — and that which drives me as well, in other circumstances — I come to some resolution about my inclination to walk in the park each day.

Memories of this place that I have known so long, and of the people who populate those memories, play an important role in the drive that brings me to the park again and again. And in the wideness of perspective that is a gift of this setting, it often seems that I am not walking alone.

In both the perspective and the experience, I find plenty of incentive to walk, regardless of the rain, or the cold, or the early darkness of the day.

© Patrick J. Walsh

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