Booker pounces, stuffs his face into tufts of gold and brown grasses, and waggles his butt in the air. I wait in respect, for a mouse may have met its judgement day. It’s hard to tell because Booker quickly loses interest and moves on.
Up ahead the chocolate Labrador named Bob waits to snarl and growl and bristle as we walk by his driveway. Bob has an invisible fence to contend with, but he stays ever hopeful he can break through and attack. I tell Booker not to provoke Bob, but of course he does anyway. It’s hard not to smile as Bob willingly electrocutes himself repeatedly to show his hostility. I wish I had that kind of hardcore conviction in my attitude.
We wander further and I finally notice the sky, the way the trees have but a few tenacious colored leaves remaining to offer modesty. Fall is definitely flirting with winters early charms.
There are lonely birds now–singles instead of flocks–and their songs have been replaced by the odd melody the wind makes as it races through empty branches and withered weeds.
The herd of Jersey cows that devoured the rented pasture over the summer months are gone now too, but Booker peers over the embankment and pokes his head through the barbwire fence just to make sure. Nope. No cows.
It occurs to me that I have a wealth of peaceful thoughts as I walk this stretch of road. The familiarity of the outdoor space allows my mind to flow unheeded by walls and chores and technical tyrants. And, although it is a familiar bit of nature, it changes constantly. I feel like I’m part of something raw and intrinsic, and it is the best part of my day.
On a recent run, I was horrified to “notice” the breathtaking canopy of trees and colorful fall leaves, ONLY after I was about a third of the way through it. Why hadn’t I looked up sooner? What in the world could have been more important than just looking up?
As a child, when I walked from the barn with my Dad after dark, he would often grab my hand and say, “look up”. I was usually cold and busy, and would be annoyed until I followed his instructions.
Thanks, Dad! Your spirit and wisdom surprise and inform me 9 years after you left us.
Wow, Claudia. What a touching memory. One of my favorite Dad and barn stories is that moment when we’d walk out the door, chores finished for the day, and head towards the house.
Dad would pause after a few steps. I’d look at him knowing what was to come. He’d raise an eyebrow. “You know I can beat you to the house, right?” “Oh yeah? Let’s see,” I’d say.
We’d race full of glee and pure silliness. I’m sure he let me win, but I’d arrive and touch the door a whisker before he did. Breathless and happy we’d burst into the house to the smells of supper waiting. But our souls had already been satisfied by a father/daughter moment.