As Steve and I walked through a wooded area this past Sunday, something rustled the dried leaves at my feet. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something move. A pale shape. Small. I followed. Soon I found myself kneeling in the mud inching closer to this little fellow, whose photo I took for a friend who loves frogs.
That same day, at an adjacent park, we walked around a pond and through the neighboring woods. In the middle of a bustling town the park was well-visited by local families. So, the animals were quite used to people. We walked through flocks of geese. Mallards looked up at us wondering if we had a treat. A chorus of gray squirrels chided Steve for not bringing them nuts. He promised to do so next time. But up high in a tree, more reluctant to be seen, sat a black squirrel.
Around grassy knolls we continued to walk. Then up a hill, past a little fort. Tucked here and there, in open spaces and sometimes beneath the largest trees, sat families. Some picnicked. I saw one man teaching his young daughter how to draw. Her little boy threw rocks into the pond and up high into the trees. I wonder if he noticed the beauty that lay at his feet?
The park was not large. And, truth be told, there were not that many trees, especially around the pond. Yet somehow, because it stood so still upon a dead branch, a great blue heron remained mostly obscured. Even as Steve and I stood there and stared at its quiet beauty, other people walked past us and muttered, “I wonder what they see?”
We used squid as the tasty lure. Once the hook had been baited, Steve taught me how to cast (last time the fellow did it for me). As I stood at the rail holding the rod, I was aware of the looks we received from the neighboring fishermen. As you can see I am still not quite up to speed on fishing attire. A few people came over to chitchat. I let Steve do all the talking. I stared out into the sea.
I watched the rippling of the water and the gentle rise and fall of the waves. In the ephemeral light of the cloudy day, every shade of blue appeared on the water’s surface. For just a moment. No fish did I see but I kept imagining them down in the dark depths, nibbling on my squid. Birds flew overhead. Sailboats drifted by. In the end, I caught nothing except of course that calm. Unexpected but welcome. A treat. As Steve and I walked back to the car, and he outlined our strategy for next time so that we’d actually catch something, I realized I didn’t need to a catch a fish. It was the journey that mattered to me, not the destination. When I shared that revelation with Steve, he was quiet for a moment, then said, “I respect your feelings. But let’s test that theory once you actually have a fish on the line.”
… red paper. Maybe. I’ll let you know how it goes. 😉
