A Walker in the Suburbs

First, the anxious tedium only an airport can supply, followed by passage on the sleek silver bird. And then, in what seems the blink of an eye, a return to normal life. Leaving behind the deep relaxation of beach time, of staring up at palm trees, impossibly slim, impossibly tall, a profusion of growth and greenery.

Then, there is finding the place I live to be new again. Even the old familiar walk, the up-and-back of the neighborhood thoroughfare, seems shiny and bright.

It is full-bore summer here. The night is rich with insect sounds, the mornings full of crows cawing and blue jays calling. Another trip is coming in a few days, a family vacation full of little people. There is plenty to do. But now, for these last morning hours, I want to pause and let it all sink in.

The natural world is never far away when I’m at the beach. I stroll beside the ocean, inhale the scent of seaweed, hear the cry of gulls, tremble at the power of waves that rise and fall and rise again.

In A Poetry Handbook, Mary Oliver notes that “these days many poets live in cities, or at least in suburbs, and the natural world grows ever more distant from our everyday lives. Most people, in fact, live in cities, and therefore most readers are not necessarily very familiar with the natural world. And yet the natural world has always been the great warehouse of symbolic imagery. Poetry is one of these ancient arts, and it began, as did all the fine arts, within the original wilderness of the earth.”

Being here, amidst this wildness, is not only relaxing for the body, it is recharging for the soul. It puts me back in touch with the “great warehouse of symbolic imagery” that I too often neglect to tap at home.

I’m in Florida on my annual getaway. I’m savoring once again that unique combination of sea air, palm trees and sugar-white sand that makes this part of the Gulf Coast both relaxing and energizing.

Before leaving I looked up the weather. Would I need to pack a sweater? Yes, but only for inside. An umbrella? Not really, because I don’t mind getting wet at the beach.

Of course, I didn’t need to check the forecast to know what the weather would be. Sunny, hot and humid with warm mornings, sultry afternoons, and a thunderstorm to clear the air before nightfall.

It’s a forecast as familiar to me as this special stretch of Florida landscape.

On Monday I woke before 6. It was still dark but promised light soon. I slathered myself with sunscreen and left for an early amble. My calculations were a little off — it doesn’t get light here as early as it does back home. I stayed on the road until the sky brightened enough to hit the beach.

Then I heard the thunder, low rumbles at first but ever more insistent. Lightning, too. Not a good time to stroll the beach. I hurried back to my room, reaching it just before the first drops fell. It was the beginning of a mostly rainy day, a rarity here but not unwelcome. Time to stay inside, to read and write and savor the quiet.

On Tuesday the air was washed clean, and a breeze blew in from the bay. Blue sky, puffy white clouds. Volleyball games and gull cries and little kids digging in the sand. The rainy day was over. A beach day had begun.