May
10, 2020
Today’s
reflection on the evidence of a durable normal and the things we do to keep hope
alive.
The weather on this Sunday is definitely dogwood winter, chilly, gray, damp. It provides a fine backdrop for reflections over a cup of coffee of yesterday’s quintessential spring loveliness—the perfect Saturday for outdoor living. And today is the perfect Sunday for small tasks, reading, lesson prep and even baking. Yes, I baked a French Apple Blueberry Galette for myself. It was that kind of cook up some comfort day. As the pie baked and the day outside skulked about, I reminisced on Loud Thunder Forest Preserve and the gifts from the Bike Man.
The preserve was a place the school cook suggested as I checked kids in at brunch. After last weekend’s livestock experience, I was keen on finding a Saturday trail walk that would be less adored. And as I loaded a few fellow hikers into the school van, I felt optimistic that we’d find our Shangri-La. This Illinois green space is tucked away along with the Mississippi downstream from the Quad-cities, deep in Trump country. There were hand lettered signs throughout Andalusia that bemoaned the governor's shut down, elevating the latest conspiracy hooey, practicing their constitutional rights. Given the state of affairs with Illinois still locked down in lockdown, I was prepared to find either the park closed or packed with kindred renegade-minded, stir-crazy citizens. Much to our relief, the gates were open and there was a paucity of cars parked in the trailhead lot, with only a few morel hunters in the woods as we set out. The canopy was lush with freshly unfurled leaves, so that the sunlit shady breeze felt as delicious as a tall glass of cool water in an August garden. A new sequence of wild blooms littered the woods – a dark wine of toad shade, lavenders in standing phlox and crane-billed geranium, variegated pink and white wood sorrel, the hidden cinnamon colored flowers of wild ginger, and the wide carpets of may-apple umbrellas, the color of granny smith apples. Crossing a small ravine, I startled at a flash of crimson suddenly in my face as a scarlet tanager flew up to perch on a limb just at eye level as if planned; we obliged with gawking esteem. Overhead in the canopy, I listened to several more tanagers make their appeals to potential mates, no doubt competing for attention with some tail-wagging and wing shaking dances like Little Richard (God rest his soul).
These
opportunities to walk among different wild spaces are a shot in the arm for my
digitized life. The seasons’ rounds that hone a compass true, provide a sanctuary
for my quirky liturgy of putting one foot before the other in fresh curiosity
and with a gritty reverence for what has come before and continues to return. It is a worship for the eternity of emergent flowers
with their perfect timing to exploit the available sunlight before the canopy crowds
in; for the sheltering overstory that reels in cycles of avaian diaspora; and for the
inspiration of the essential recycling services of mushrooms – each of these, a
touchstone of resilience. In countless ways, humans mindlessly plague natural communities,
as the Coronavirus plagues us. This tried and true opulence, when given a chance to return, displays no acrimony,
as if to say, parasites will be parasites.
Returning
to school via an ice cream shop, I got a call from the bike-man. The bicycles we brought by on Thursday for
refurbishing were good to go. Being in the same QC quadrant as his house, I added
that to our itinerary. This mechanical craftsman has operated his cash only
cycle shop in a garage beside his home for decades and is a legend. His work was impeccable at bargain-basement
prices. I can vouch that he is a cornerstone agent for reducing the carbon
footprint in our municipality. The
beautiful Saturday weather facilitated boom for his business; we pulled
into the side street beside his shop along with three or four other vehicles. As is my practice in the world beyond my pandemic free bubble, I donned my cotton mask, then noticed I was
alone in this act. In fact, as I waited outside
the gate for the space around his garage to clear, I was met by departing
customers, who glared at me as if to say, “why are you bringing us down with that
token reminder of this interminable never-ending health saga, and on such a
fine day?” Behind my mask, I just smiled – the bike man, like me, is no spring
chicken. We’ve got to look out for each
other. I was grateful to be able to share this enterprise
of long standing local commerce with my students, a plucky back yard part of normal is alive and healthy. I will do my part
to keep it that way.
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