Wednesday, January 25, 2017
Temperature: 40 degrees
Skies overcast with some rain.
Today I'm feeling adventurous.
I break from routine to explore a new trail. One that winds around a man made lake, the effects of a river dammed years ago. Brady's Run Park keeps the lake stocked with trout and offers free fishing for all. If the weather was warmer and the day drier, the trail would be crowded with people. Fishing lines, glittering in the sunlight, would extend into the water, hoping for a bite. But today I'm cold and alone, my only company the red warning signs posted every one hundred feet that read Do Not Swim.
I feel a wet drop of rain rest on my nose. And another on my cheek. I look out at the surface of the lake. Its once smooth reflection bubbles like someone set the water to boil. I stand still, eyes fixed on the troubled water. Watch as the rain drips from the sky, ripples across the lake surface, and joins the larger body of water. The movement is mesmerizing. The pitter-patter of rain drops is calming.
A shudder shakes my shoulders. I imagine the dry, warmth of my car and wish to call it a day and head home. But I force myself to be still and quiet. To observe and listen.
Across the lake, pine trees mingle with their deciduous brothers. Their vibrant green is a sharp contrast to the otherwise stark background. A quiet "quack-quack" reaches my ears, and I spy two ducks sailing towards me. Undeterred by the weather, they swim smoothly through the water, their heads (one brown and one green) bend slightly forward. Beneath the water I imagine four orange, webbed feet paddling forward. I wonder if they're on their way home. Come spring will ducklings follow in their wake?
I smile. Childhood memories of feeding ducks returns to me. The feel of a smooth duckbill pecking at the bit of bread in my palm. The boisterous "quack-quack" as one happily gobbles up the snack. I pat my coat and pant pockets hoping for some food to share and find only a used tissue and my car keys. I shrug my shoulders. Enriched flour product probably isn't an ideal component of the average duck diet anyway.
The ducks reach the lake shore and waddle onto the path. I watch as they shake the water from their bodies, tail feathers swaying back and forth, back and forth. They preen, and primp, and set off towards a small grove of bushes. With a final "quack-quack" they disappear from my sight. I wave goodbye and continue on the trail.
Sunday, January 29, 2017
Thursday, January 12, 2017
Entry 1: To Run At Brady's Run
Wednesday, January 11
Temperature: 56 degrees
Overcast, as usual.
Today is a fluke.
I'm wearing shorts and a long sleeve t-shirt. The air is unseasonably warm. It feels like it could be early March, but the cut of the wind reminds that it's early January.
I stretch by my car and eye the mile long path in front of me. Since July I've come to Brady's Run Park to run, walk, and explore. I love its soaring trees. Sycamore. Elm. Oak. I love the open green space where children run and play.
I check my watch, fill my lungs with air, and take off. The path beneath my feet is solid, paved, manmade. I listen to my footfalls and am lost in its rhythmic pattern. Ground, air, ground. Ground, air, ground. The river runs with me. It rushes just twenty feet beyond and follows parallel to the path. The water teems with energy, fat and happy after a long night of rain.
Sweat beads on my forehead and threatens to trickle into my eyes. I wipe it away with my shirt sleeve. If the sun were shining, I would be over-warm. But the sun is not shining. The sun has not shone in days. The grey skies over Brady's Run are common place, to be expected. If the sun shone, I'm not sure I would recognize this place or this month.
I wonder, if the park misses the sun. After a week of perpetual cloud and mist, does the towering maple ever shrug and say "I think I'll just go back to sleep. Maybe give life a try again tomorrow"? Does the deer, frozen in the bushes struggle to keep its eyes open? Does nature, like me, need a sun lamp to get out of bed in the morning?
A bug buzzes dangerously close to my eyes, interrupting my thoughts. I swat it away, preventing its likely doom. That lucky bug will live another day and go on to fly into another person's eye tomorrow.
I leave the river behind and follow the trail as it circles back to the start. Now I run parallel to a busy road. My ears are filled with the scratch of tires on wet concrete and the rumbling of broken mufflers. The noise takes away from my run, disconnects me from nature. It reminds me of the human proclivity to hurriedness and stress. There is never enough time. In months past, I hadn't noticed the volume of the traffic. Perhaps the skeleton trees of the winter don't trap the noise like their summer counterparts.
The trail is nearly at its end. I see its start and my car parked and waiting. As I finish the mile, I look at this small portion of Brady's Run I've come to love. I breath in the air, so warm it's almost sweet. I feel the cool breeze on my face, its presence welcome on this unseasonably warm January day.
I keep running.
Temperature: 56 degrees
Overcast, as usual.
Today is a fluke.
I'm wearing shorts and a long sleeve t-shirt. The air is unseasonably warm. It feels like it could be early March, but the cut of the wind reminds that it's early January.
I stretch by my car and eye the mile long path in front of me. Since July I've come to Brady's Run Park to run, walk, and explore. I love its soaring trees. Sycamore. Elm. Oak. I love the open green space where children run and play.
I check my watch, fill my lungs with air, and take off. The path beneath my feet is solid, paved, manmade. I listen to my footfalls and am lost in its rhythmic pattern. Ground, air, ground. Ground, air, ground. The river runs with me. It rushes just twenty feet beyond and follows parallel to the path. The water teems with energy, fat and happy after a long night of rain.
Sweat beads on my forehead and threatens to trickle into my eyes. I wipe it away with my shirt sleeve. If the sun were shining, I would be over-warm. But the sun is not shining. The sun has not shone in days. The grey skies over Brady's Run are common place, to be expected. If the sun shone, I'm not sure I would recognize this place or this month.
I wonder, if the park misses the sun. After a week of perpetual cloud and mist, does the towering maple ever shrug and say "I think I'll just go back to sleep. Maybe give life a try again tomorrow"? Does the deer, frozen in the bushes struggle to keep its eyes open? Does nature, like me, need a sun lamp to get out of bed in the morning?
A bug buzzes dangerously close to my eyes, interrupting my thoughts. I swat it away, preventing its likely doom. That lucky bug will live another day and go on to fly into another person's eye tomorrow.
I leave the river behind and follow the trail as it circles back to the start. Now I run parallel to a busy road. My ears are filled with the scratch of tires on wet concrete and the rumbling of broken mufflers. The noise takes away from my run, disconnects me from nature. It reminds me of the human proclivity to hurriedness and stress. There is never enough time. In months past, I hadn't noticed the volume of the traffic. Perhaps the skeleton trees of the winter don't trap the noise like their summer counterparts.
The trail is nearly at its end. I see its start and my car parked and waiting. As I finish the mile, I look at this small portion of Brady's Run I've come to love. I breath in the air, so warm it's almost sweet. I feel the cool breeze on my face, its presence welcome on this unseasonably warm January day.
I keep running.
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