"I am aware of the fineness of
the texture of the
scene as I move quietly across the landscape..."
By Patrick J. Walsh
In
the morning, the park is quiet. And I am quiet as I walk.
The
air is cool, but warming as the day moves forward. The Sun shines with a gauzy
benevolence.
There
is a stolid indifference to the trees. Not unkind or unwelcoming, they are
nonetheless in no particular need of human interaction or indulgence to
propagate the quiet dignity they have maintained during the many decades they
have stood here in the park.
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| © Patrick J. Walsh |
...there is much that is instructive
in
that part of the day that speaks least...
There
are birds in the park this morning; the occasional silent shadow in the sky
attests to their presence. But they are more quiet than usual. The chill air is
for the most part absent of their normal chatter.
Any
slight evidence of movement in the air resonates well within the delicate
balance of the morning rays and the chill of the season. The wind is but a
breeze, and the shrill of the recent harsh weather echoes only in memory.
Gliding
across the otherwise placid surface of the pond, a few Canada geese (their
proper name, although I freely admit to having always known them as “Canadian”
geese from the time of my formative years) seem content in their noiseless
idyll.
At
this time of year the park is probably a rest stop for the geese as they make
their way along the path of their biannual migration. Those who migrate earlier
in the chilly season tend to move more quickly through the trip, while geese
such as these, taking wing later and thus more exposed to the vagaries of the
oncoming winter, spend more time at rest along the way.
The
thought of their lingering at this quiet stop along their way is cheering to me
as I walk past the edge of the pond.
I
am quiet, but not idle. Each step seems somehow more distinct, more clearly
measured, than the languid strides of summer. And I am aware of the fineness of
the texture of the scene as I move quietly across the landscape of which I
presume to be a part, as the morning passes and the day unfolds.
The
experience recalls in me some intimation of Henry David Thoreau’s Walden; particularly
that section that the great essayist called “Sounds,” in which he wrote of “the
language which all things and events speak without metaphor, which alone is
copious and standard.”
That
language of experience seems the only communication of this particular morning,
and in its embrace I am gradually aware that there is much that is instructive
in a walk in the park in that part of the day that speaks least to the human
ear.
It
is the quiet that bespeaks the vastness of the experience. Again deferring to
Thoreau:
“…my
life itself was become my amusement and never ceased to be novel. It was
a dream of many scenes and without an end…
Follow your genius closely enough, and it will not fail to show
you a fresh prospect every hour.”
And
it is as well in the movement from idle observance to the awareness of one’s
encounter with the greater world that moves us forward, as surely as Thoreau
found his place in life by abandoning his place in the society of the 1850s:
“What
is a course of history or philosophy, or poetry, no matter how well
selected, or the best society, or the most admirable
routine of life, compared with the discipline of looking always at
what is to be seen? Will you be a
reader, a
student merely, or a seer? Read
your fate, see what is before
you, and walk on into futurity.”
This
morning, the park is quiet. And I am quiet as I walk.
©
Patrick J. Walsh
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