Just a Walk

I've been told twice in as many days that I should write more, that my writing is "pithy" and "very masculine." (thank you for the compliment to my plucky co-worker, who also happens to be a published author (she is a contributing author to A Cup of Comfort for Mothers...check it out), and to KPS, and I respect their opinions very much). I suppose that explains my stalwart resistance to reading anything by Austen in my book club and why I keep trying to convince them to read Into the Wild (I would try for McCarthy but I'm certain the girls would resist.  Perhaps we can compromise with Steinbeck).  At any rate, I keep thinking to myself, "I don't have anything to write about." 

Sick of my roach infested gym, I opted to walk through the Cloisters in upper Manhattan instead.  I'm giving you a gift by sharing this place with you.  I used to live in the 190's, and I would either run or walk through the shaded trails pretty much every day in the summer.  In the fall, the main trail running through the lower half of the park (Fort Tryon) would be beautifully laden with golden leaves.   Sunlight peek-a-boos through openings in the leaves, and you can smell and practically feel the damp earth, so much thicker than the red rock sand and dirt I am accustomed to.

Walking for me is a very visceral experience.  Not the inert process of the treadmill, but the passing of space beneath my feet.  I like to hear the ground underneath my shoes, smell a flower if I'm so compelled, sneer at ogly men, taste the sweat on my lip. 

I decided to walk up Cabrini today, a tree-lined street a block or so away from the Hudson.  You are instantly transported to a part of New York City that feels serene; there are children riding about on scooters, parents pushing strollers, elderly couples walking down the sidewalk holding hands, and between the buildings, glimpses of the Hudson River and the Jersey Palisades on the other side.

I chose to walk at about 7:00 or so, and the sun was just making its descent into the horizon.  The river shimmered with gold.  I could suddenly smell leaves, water, grass, earth, and I inhaled deeply.  At the end of Fort Washington where the Cloisters begin, there is a flower garden.  This is where the present comes in.  There are many benches set up so one can sit and just admire the garden, the river, and the George Washington Bridge just to the south.  It is an extreme juxtaposition; where dirt meets steel, but both the bridge and the gardens are tended to by human hands.

My thoughts have a tendency to dwell in the ether, and I have been counseled in the past to do things that quite literally connect me with the earth.  There is no thinking forward, no rehashing the past, no wondering what is next when you are nose deep in the bud of a flower.

As I was walking, I thought to myself, "I could write about this!  I could tell people about Fort Tryon, the Cloisters, the beautiful flower garden, about how walking in this corner of Manhattan makes me, I will begrudgingly admit, really like it."  My loyalties, however, still lie in Southern Utah.  Didn't want you to think I turned all urban on you.