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The Art of Listening

The Art of Listening

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I read in this week’s Brain Pickings newsletter that the composer Aaron Copland, in his book Music and Imagination, says listening to music is an art, just as playing it is. 

If that’s the case, then I practice the art every time I walk. 

This morning, fresh from reading about Copland, the “Overture to Die Meistersinger” in my ears, I thought about how I listen. It’s mostly with the ear of an amateur, someone whose love for music greatly exceeds her knowledge of it. 

But that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it; perhaps I enjoy it more. 

“There are few pleasures in art greater than the secure sense that one
can recognize beauty when one comes upon it… ” Copland writes. “Recognizing the beautiful
in an abstract art like music partakes somewhat of a minor miracle.”

Lake Audubon Trail

Lake Audubon Trail

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One aspect of walking I’ve learned to appreciate more in the last few months is its timing, how a stroll is shaded, colored, made whole by the time of day in which it happens. The fast dash of a morning feels totally different when transported into the slow slide of an afternoon. Or vice-versa.

I’ve walked the Lake Audubon Trail before but never at this time or in this season. Doing it in the morning, starting fresh from the ample parking lot rather than getting to it at the end of the long Glade Trail route — made it a new adventure. 

There were shady stretches, sunny sections and a feeling of expansiveness every time I glimpsed the water. There were fellow fast-walkers, one man tugging his two Jack Russell terriers, and a young mother pointing out butterflies and squirrels to her toddler. 

 I’ve learned the hard way that the trail doesn’t go all the way around the lake. So I just made it an out-and-back. From the traffic I passed on the path, I wasn’t the only one. 

Tranquil Contemplation

Tranquil Contemplation

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When 19th-century statesman Henry Clay needed a respite from his life as the “Great Compromiser,” he retreated to the shady groves of Ashland, his Kentucky estate. There, as the sign tells us, he walked the trails of his beloved farm, using them for “tranquil contemplation” of the issues at hand.

For Clay, as for many of us, walking and thinking went hand in hand. Maybe these strolls reinvigorated the legislator after the rigors of rough-and-tumble politics. Maybe they inspired some of his signature moves.

But even if they didn’t, the paths Clay created remain for current-day walkers to explore. When I strolled them two weeks ago, I felt the hush of the giant oaks and sycamores. They stilled my buzzing brain. 

The Company of Walkers

The Company of Walkers

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Sometimes the solo walker craves the solo trail, to beg off from the world and the bustle. But other times, a peopled path is welcome.  

A few Sundays ago I had one of those days — a mid-morning walk on the Glade Trail filled with dog-walkers and baby strollers, with runners and saunterers, with whole families, too.

And no wonder: it was early enough to be comfortable and late enough to accommodate the Sunday sleepers-in. 

The smiles and nods gladdened my walk, made me feel part of a company of walkers, rag-tag and accidental, but a company just the same. 

Walk Across Kentucky

Walk Across Kentucky

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This morning, I walked across Kentucky. Not the 370 miles from Ashland to Paducah, or the 180 miles from Covington to Williamsburg. But the two miles around the Kentucky Arboretum trail, which promises to compress all seven of the state’s geographical regions into one stroll. 

I saw conifers representing the Appalachian Plateau, dogwood and coffeetree for the Knobs and tall grasses for the Pennyrile Region.

The Bluegrass Region, where Lexington is located,  is the most extensive, with bur and chinquapin oaks, several types of ash tree and outcroppings of shaggy limestone. 

Ambling through the Arboretum warmed me up, wore me out and educated me, too. After just one visit I can tell it will be one of my regular hometown routes. 

Ashland Park

Ashland Park

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There are places I visit so often in my imagination that I need to recharge the memories as you would a battery. I did some recharging today when I strolled through Lexington’s Ashland Park neighborhood.

There was Woodland Park with its baseball diamonds and picnic tables, then my old place on Lafayette, the first of several former houses I would visit today (the others I drove by rather than walked past).

I ambled down South Hanover and Fincastle, letting my mind wander, fantasizing what it would be like to live in some of these places, the grand brick colonials, the charming round-doored tudors.  

Till I reached Ashland itself, the home of 19-century statesman Henry Clay, which stopped my reveries in their tracks. Ashland with its shaded walks and formal garden. Ashland with its historic pedigree and bountiful acreage. Even in fantasy, Ashland is out of my league. 

Off-Beach Walks

Off-Beach Walks

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Maybe it’s the Red Tide. Maybe it’s the shade. Or maybe it’s just my frame of mind. But for some reason I’m taking walks off the beach-beaten track this year. And I’m finding …

Spanish moss …

lush greenery,

and quiet canals.

All just steps away from the sand and surf. 

A New Milestone

A New Milestone

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I typically note the passing of blog milestones when there are round numbers ending in zeroes, but today I’ll mix it up a little and note the passing of a milestone ending in 9s. 

This is the 3,499th post I’ve written since I began A Walker in the Suburbs in 2010,  the 87th since I left Winrock and the 499th since my last milestone post. 

Since then I’ve written about the pandemic’s beginning and why despite its gift of time I’m still not getting anything done. 

I’ve written about trips I’ve taken, books I’ve read and walks that have inspired me. 

Mostly I’ve just tried to capture life in my little corner of the world, the joys and trials, the profound beauty of each day passing. 

Streaming

Streaming

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Today I walked to Gabrieli, yesterday to Vivaldi, and the day before, Joni Mitchell. All of this from the music streaming service that began as a free six-month trial but I decided was worth paying for. 

Though old news for many, the idea that I can call up most any piece of music struck me like a thunderclap. It was out there waiting but I had to be ready for it, ready to see music as something to rent and not to own.

Which is not to say I have entirely given up that concept. I still have stacks of CDs and LPs, still have my trusty iPod, tiny and ancient, with playlists that have embedded themselves in my brain. 

But now I also have my phone, gateway to the streaming app — and a musical freedom I am only beginning to plumb. 

Narrow Shoulders

Narrow Shoulders

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While I miss Garrett County’s bucolic scenery on my suburban walks, I don’t miss the proximity to hair-raising traffic. Those mountain byways had lovely views but narrow shoulders, and trucks careened down them with the confidence born of familiarity — a familiarity I lacked, of course. 

So I treated the roads with caution — or maybe you could say cautious optimism. I alternated walking against the traffic with staying on the same side of it when there was a blind curve or a wider berm. 

And in this way I made my way down Bray School Road to its intersection with Oakland Sang Run Road, or Lakeshore halfway to 219, or Foster to the graveled Betts Lane and back. 

Each time I stood for a minute before turning around, taking in the human-scale hills, the sweet-scented meadow grass, the low hum of a radio coming from a house that’s for sale. I thought about what it would be like to live in that house, amidst such loveliness. Then I turned around and trotted back.