I live in the city where there’s lots of cement walkways that take me places. Almost all of them are straight with linear cracks that are perpendicular to the flow of the walkway and equidistant from each other.
If I head down the sidewalk behind my apartment building, I’ll pass by the coffee shop that’s packed at pre-rush hour but pretty quiet during the day except for a few unemployed, pecking away at their laptops. Then there’s the absurdly expensive doughnut shop that is mostly empty except for “Grandpa time,” which is 7:00 am to noon on the weekends, when there’s a line out the door. Of course, there’s the bank branch with young eager tellers and “personal bankers,” hoping that the ATM customers will find a reason to actually enter the bank.
My sidewalk gets me to these places and others, week in and week out, year in and year out, quickly, reliably, with no surprises.
But there’s another kind of footpath that isn’t so linear, perpendicular, equidistant and predictable. I know about it because I also live in the country.
Just like in the city, there’s a sidewalk behind my house. This one is wooden and curves into the woods, ending up at nowhere special. Actually, it does.
Whenever, I succumb to the temptation to walk down that sidewalk, I see or hear or smell or taste something new almost every time.
It starts with those well-worn wooden slats which are a little uneven in spots but always solid and reassuring.
Once I take the curve, I soon reach the bench that my Grandpa built and I was lucky enough to be chosen to maintain. As soon as I sit, I begin to transition, clearing my mind and letting the forest take over.
Initially, I feel the stillness and the way the light softens. Then I become aware of the chirping and the tweeting and the fanning of wings and the rustling of branches, reminding me that this isn’t my woods, it’s ours.
I get up and move along the sidewalk until it turns into a dirt path, now open to what may lie ahead .
If I’m lucky, I’ll find black raspberries, not easy to see in the forest light and anyway well protected from predators by sharp and remarkably resilient thorns. I carefully navigate past them to pick a few berries to sample. They have the same nubby surface but are shinier than their red cousins and deliver a much more aggressive taste and texture.
In the middle of the forest, there’s a huge oak tree, much taller than the others. On my last visit, I noticed splashes of white along the trunk as far up as I could see. As I neared the base of the tree, I was assaulted by an acrid, pungent smell that said, “Don’t come closer.
Remembering that a bald eagle had been sighted (first time in twenty years) circling over our forest, I immediately thought “bird’s nest 50 feet above my head,” then “vertical latrine/protective barricade.” I edged away, desperately fighting the urge to look up one more time.
Finally, I come to the end of my sidewalk and look back one last time before I leave.
I’m glad I have sidewalks that get me where I need to go.
But I’m even happier that I have a sidewalk that gets me where I need to be.