I have stood many times at this very spot; boots on wooden slats, jeans pressed against wood railing, eyes searching, mind whirling with thoughts, both feasible and fanciful. I felt time slow to a halt. I saw seasons change: the earthy colors of fall, the lifeless grays and browns of winter, the yellow-green liveliness of spring, and the bright green foliage of summer.
It may not be magical, but it can feel that way.
It is a place to stop and rest for a moment after a long hike. It tells you that you will soon be back in your car, headed toward home. It lets you stop, if you want to, and delay those last steps that will take you out of the park. And if your body is able and your mind is willing, if you can block out everything you know, everything you have seen or done, if you look neither left nor right, but only straight ahead toward the back edge of the pond … then, with a few moments of meditation, the outside world is gone and this tiny space is where you exist: a space of quiet, a space of calm, a space of both inner and outer peace.
On this day, late in May of 2014, I stood on that very spot. The trails winding through the forest had been warm. I was sweating. Standing on the footbridge, I took off my hiking hat and placed it on the railing. I ran my fingers through my wet hair and wipe my brow with my shirtsleeve. A light cool breeze washed across me. It felt good against the back of my head.
Soon, I would be at home, taking a shower, followed by a nap, followed by some lunch, and then a quiet afternoon of writing. But, at that moment, there was nothing more important than to be in that special little world, to soak it in, along with the morning sun, and the cool breeze that comforted me. As I stood there in a near silent forest, I let my eyes soften, losing their focus so that all I could see was a beautiful blur of many tones and shades of green.
And for a little while, a priceless little while, I was there but not there. I was conscious but my unconscious mind toiled furiously on some writer’s work not yet produced, while I rested and reveled in that precious moment. Like a lily pad, I floated, but not on water; I floated in the ether of my imagination, where dreams come real, where hurt and heartbreak, foibles and fears, do not exist, where anything you can imagine can be yours … for a little while.