A Walker in the Suburbs

As it turns out, Parker’s Mill Road does have a sidewalk, at least in part. And today I took that sidewalk out into “the country,” which is surprisingly close to this part of Lexington. The fences are black instead of white on this road — though less than a mile away are the famous white fences and red accents of Calumet Farm, home of many Derby winners.

But today I was the one doing the running, not just the thoroughbreds. I trotted down Parker’s Mill into Cardinal Valley Park, following the signs that said “Walking Trail,” and found myself on a beautiful paved path that ran a mile or more. Trees arched over the trail and it was pleasantly busy with dog-walkers, amblers and what appeared to be an entire high school track team.

It was late afternoon. The sun was warm and slanting, the air cool and refreshing. And there settled on me that kind of well-being that it’s tempting to call “runner’s high” — but is more than that, I’m convinced; is some amalgam of fresh air, exertion and the mind-jostling that comes with movement.

Whatever it is, today it was made possible by the cut-through. As I climbed back over the fence toward home, I gave a silent cheer.

The rain has been heavier than forecast and the temperature colder.

Birds like it, though. They’re glad to have moisture and birdseed in the feeder and, best of all, a nip of suet.

But for the rest of us it’s a day to stay inside, count our blessings and be grateful for small pleasures.

That’s what I’m doing.

The roses are gone but the trellis remains.

It’s the order within the chaos. The frame inside the thicket. The brown beneath the green.

It’s a glimpse into the essential order of things.

Summer obscures the trellis. Winter bares it, softens it, gives us a chance to admire it, too.

A postscript to “The Coverup” below.

Last night I covered my Dad, who’s in the hospital. I thought of all the times he covered me.

I thought about how life comes full circle, and how, even in the sad times, there’s a fullness to it. Something deeper than joy or sorrow.

To have two parakeets in a cage that hangs from the ceiling is to have a complicated relationship with feathers.

Feathers are, of course, beautiful to look at, whether on or off the bird. They come in iridescent yellows, blues and greens — hues that might be garish elsewhere but seem perfectly natural on a bird. And feathers are fun to collect and hold: the sharp peak of the long flight feather and the soft fuzz of the white down.

But when birds molt and feathers fly, well, then you have a lot of cleaning to do. It was while cleaning after a recent molt that I began to wonder:  How would it feel to live with feathers, to fluff them and preen them, to see them piled on the cage floor?  How would it feel to lose them, one by one?

Would we be lightened? Would we be freed? And when new growth appeared, would we know then what it means to begin again?

They visited us on Saturday, several of them, including a persistent pair that hung out on the deck railing, the feeder or nearby branches. At the slightest sound (especially when I opened the window to take their picture), they would flutter away.  But I waited — and they returned.

Maybe they were driven here by the northwest wind. Or more likely the suet — a high-calorie treat to fuel their winter rambles. I hope they checked out the real estate while they were here: there are a couple of dandy bluebird houses in the neighborhood, and this time of year they’re open for takers.

Mostly I wondered where they had come from and where they were going. I’d like to think they were the proverbial bluebirds of happiness, come to pay us a visit on this cold midwinter day.

As snail mail becomes extinct, the handwritten, hand-addressed Christmas card becomes evermore precious.

For years, maybe since we’ve lived in this house, I’ve displayed them on the mantel. They are a crucial part of my holiday decor.

Every year different, every year the same. Reds and greens. Birds and trees. Stables and stars. Snowmen and wise men. They warm up the hearth and dress up the house.

What they do best is remind me of the people who sent them — family and friends near and far.

The light these days feels thin, stretched — a blanket too short to cover my toes. But it’s all we have, this light, so sometimes I walk twice, early and late, my breath a cloud, my feet warming to the pace, drawing out the day.

By the time I’m finished, stars shine in the darkening sky and I’ve come to
a house where lamp light glows yellow through tall windows and porch lights wink beside the door.

Then I realize: It’s for this light I’ve come — for a glimpse of the familiar through altered eyes, for the light of my own house welcoming me home.

From time to time a walker has to drive. To move from point A to point B when points A and B are hundreds of miles apart. To tote groceries or kids or large stringed instruments. To accommodate those who seldom stroll.

Walk enough, though, and it colors the drive, makes it less efficient. At a certain point the car becomes the body with wheels for legs.

That’s when a drive becomes a meditative amble. A time to think, daydream and while away the hours.

Recent events have once again brought to my attention the mind’s power over the body. This is not a new story — or even a novel idea for a post. After all, walking in the suburbs ( the activity, not the blog!) is as good for the mood as it is for the heart and lungs.

But seeing it in action, the undeniable power of this mind-body connection, fills me with wonder and gratitude.

We are a collection of chemicals, of muscle, bone and sinew. But we are also so much more.