This week I did not go out to the hills of Virginia for a hike.
I didn’t go out the week before either.
Instead I went for a morning walk to a nearby city park.
Why the shift? Social distancing. Closure of state parks. The Corona Virus.
This virus is changing our lives.
I miss my hikes into the deep woods. But my walks in the neighborhood give me a new appreciation of the work my neighbors put into their yards. I’m not talking about grass being green. I am talking about the joy of standing on a sidewalk and looking at the arrays of azaleas that have burst open in their vibrant colors. I am talking about the vegetables gardens that peek around from the back of their houses or more prominently placed in the side or front yards in order to get better sun. I am talking about the joy I see in my neighbors’ faces as they see the joy in my own face at the beauty provided by their labor.
Let’s be real. A rough-barked Persimmon tree growing on the margin of a field of uncut hay has a stark beauty all its own. I know of the fruit I may find there in the Fall. There is wonder in the ancient Pear tree growing on the edge of a parking lot where a house stood 200 years ago. The tree may only have a few seasons left but in the Spring it blossoms, and in the Fall it still produces several hard, sweet pears. In summer the Chinaberry trees that line the old lanes provide their sweet fruit for me and the birds that usually get them first.
But here in our neighborhood, my pleasure in being outside is immediate. I see the daffodils growing nearly wild in more than one yard. I know that they will be gone soon, but they will be replaced by the later blooms of the flowering trees. I would see many of these same trees deep in the woods on my walks in past Springs. I have written about the pale green blossoms of the small Dogwoods that turn to a blazing white deep in the soon-to-be-shadowed depths of the hardwood forest.
These old places where I walk are like old friends. I know them well in all seasons. And likewise they know me. But now the sidewalks in my neighborhood are becoming my friends again. I had walked them when I was recovering from an illness two decades ago. I know the slender, twisted branches of the Quince bushes with their delicate pink blooms. There are several of these along my walk up to the park. I know the shade of Linden trees that are planted in the park at the end of these urban paths.
These places, the present and the past, all have a place in my mind. I derive pleasure in thinking about the old, and from walking the new. And when I get back home, I can relive those walks in the forest paths of years ago by telling tales of those paths. And the tales of today’s walk in the neighborhood? I can tell those stories as well, as together we build a sense of place for these, our shared sidewalks.
And there are the birds as well.