After rounding that first left-hand curve, blue signage with a white right arrow prepares us for the valley. During rainy seasons, this valley used to become somewhat flooded. Leaping over the flowing water worked most times; otherwise, planting large stepping rocks helped us cross the water with dry shoes intact. Fortunately, the park permanently re-routed the water drainage.
I write this during leaf-less winter. Scattered short trees with funny little hanging balls grace the sides of the trail. During Fall, ripened persimmons and brain-looking green hedge apples can be eaten or used for house décor. People fish along the lake's banks and seem to catch little. We wonder about toxicity levels, but they apparently love the idea of fishing.
Blue heron Herman is in his usual spot; on the left side of the path, perched a little higher than eye-level. Nearing Herman, his feathers become clearer and he's anything but skittish. He holds his ground. In fact, he never leaves. On closer inspection, old Herman is actually a tall, dry, wooden limb with a head-shaped curve. Herman regularly fools us. He is Lake Springfield's greeter, and on my husband's moonlit morning runs, he is the boogie-bird.
An ideal tree for photo-ops is next. Its sturdy, low-hanging branch resembles an extended, strong arm that is just high enough for a challenging teen tree climb. But I, too, have scaled it.
Rounding a bend we hear an unusual noise, like a spoon strumming a metal cheese grater. It is a bird atop a bush, and it seems to resemble a blue jay. Nearing him, he hides deep into the twig-filled bowels of the bush. It is impossible to see the forest through the trees (or the hidden bird through the scraggly branches). He's there somewhere, but successfully vanishes from sight. Skittish cardinals are my favorite. Their guttural songs melodically resonate, whip, and repeat. Robins seem to be happily tone-deaf.
From a distance, something looks odd, like large, out-of-place stumps around the sidewalk. Ah, it is a group of deer, and they are unusually close to the cement path (my vocabulary too closely resembles vintage Beverly Hillbillies). I try to snap a picture, but being a gun-slinger in a wild-west face-off or a police officer in a shoot-out is not my M.O. I would be dead. My slow-mo camera-draw only captures their teasing, wagging tails after they've scurried across the sidewalk. It's amazing how quickly deer vanish into the woods, blending in with trees and sticks and brush. What all is hiding in the deep brush, anyway? Maybe gold.
We enter an open portion of the path. At times this lengthy stretch has temperature extremes. There is no shade or barrier from stinging winds. One time, we spotted a triplet of cute, smelly skunklets traveling shoulder-to-shoulder, in-tandem. We kept our distance and snapped photos cautiously. Why on earth vandals would shatter glass bottles on the path rattles me. It was done. one.night. three.bottles. dangerous.glass.chunks.and.shards. everywhere.
The boathouse is many times a sight for sore eyes. It has saved us from lightning strikes and is always inviting, especially for cool H2O from the fountain. On hot or cold days, we yearn for shelter from temperature extremes. Sometimes a potty break is needed; most times, not. The workers are normally friendly and informative. On one frigid and snowy day, my toes were on the verge of frostbite. A kind angel pulled up a chair and portable heater for needed relief.
Today is gorgeous, with no need for air conditioners or heaters. The boathouse bids us farewell, and we approach the lake's boundary. It is time to stretch legs and arms while breathing deeply in and then out. That's what older people do.
Sunny days, viewing glistening, undulating ripples on the water, is a deluxe treat. The shine temporarily blinds eyes and mesmerizes. Attempts to follow one ripple prove impossible. Kayakers, albino pelicans, geese, and ducks float the lake; herons glide like huge paper airplanes. Slithering snakes have greeted us a time or twenty. Groundhogs waddle and chipmunks scamper into their hiding holes.
One creature that repeatedly mystifies is the bald eagle. Spotting one is a rare and treasured treat. Eagles can be mistakenly confused with ugly turkey vultures. Turkey vultures fly in groups, over land; eagles normally fly solo, near to or over the water. Spotting an eagle's white head is key for identification. A few months ago, one flew directly overhead in search of prey. We've spotted at least a dozen in the past 2 years, and the sight of one is still breath-taking. Once, we witnessed a rare and fascinating show of two eagles intermittently dive-bombing into the lake for afternoon snacks. Another time one hovered the waters and then skillfully snatched a fish, flying towards us with the catch in his beak. Their wing span and strength are particularly captivating.
Huff, puff. We are almost finished as we head up that final, steep grade. We figuratively "kill four birds with one stone" opting to: Seize precious together time; perform an invigorating cardio workout; commune with uniquely entertaining nature, and most importantly, invite opportunity for compelling metaphors and stories to weave into blogs such as this.
Nature sometimes blindsides us, but not visa-versa. Unexpected lightning storms and sudden strong winds on a walk are surprising. By blindside (BS) I mean something totally unexpected occurs. Normally a BS feels like the rug has been figuratively pulled out from under one's feet. Blindsides and decisions go hand-in-hand; and, in networked communities, decisions are, at times, mind-boggling. Reality TV shows thrive on the BS-factor. Kass blindsides Garrett, or Garrett blindsides Kass. "Expect the unexpected" is their motto. I've come to the "Pollyanna" conclusion that in real life, blindsides are generally unintentional. Misinterpreted cues and sometimes even egocentricity can blind one's perspective.
I turn to nature as I sprawl, following a most recent rug pull. I am emotional; nature is therapeutic. I cry and center myself seeking His whisper. I hear my grandmother's favorite lyrics:
♫And He walks with me
and He talks with me...
and He tells me I am His own.
And the joy we share as we tarry there...
none other... has ever... known.♫
A vigorous 50-minute power walk is ample time to commune and pray, for mind-cover. I don't want selfish thoughts to overpower; I seek a bigger picture. It is actually later in the evening when I hear what seems to be valuable perspective: We have no regrets...
That idea alone is reassuring, and then positive pummel continues... I feel an abundant, mega-BLINDSIDE: My husband and I are pretty much the luckiest people in the world...
Luckiest?... Nnnaaooo (imagine Meg Ryan's throaty "No" in YGM, during "tweaking"-time, cynically reacting to NY152 being her Internet mystery man's physical address). That "luckiest" idea is most egocentric and narcissistic. I now ponder: Is it, at times, beneficial for us to experience God's tweaking? Aren't most Americans pretty much the luckiest people in the world?
God, show grace toward us as we tiptoe through and react to a most uncomfortable blindside... The shattered glass desperately needs supernatural sweeping. Merci, Monsieur, and... Tres Bon.
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