There are many places to hike, climb mountains, or take a leisurely stroll in this sweet, rough, north country of New Hampshire, where I live. And this past week, a warm surge of spring drew me outside every day.
Spring's scent floats through the air. The last dirty piles of plowed snow are drying up. The gray woods and matted amber meadow grasses are being lightly sprayed with hints of green. Buds are at the tips of the lilac bushes.
I walked along a familiar path that follows a small river through the woods and meadows. And then, I did something I failed to do on all my other walks.
I stopped walking and sat down in the matted grass above the river.
I just sat there and watched the river as it flowed over a ledge of smooth rocks -- happy, gurgling sounds, like a kid enjoying a slide in the park.
Then I realized the matted grass that looked
dry wasn't. The wetness soaked through my
pants. But my wet butt actually felt good.
At first, my mind continued racing, much
like the water down the river. I had my
camera with me and took photos, trying to
capture the experience visually while at the
same time realizing that feelings can't be
digitized. While I thought about how cool it
was to be sitting there, listening to and
watching the water, enjoying the warm,
spring day, my thoughts were as busy and
rushing as the water, skipping from stone to
stone, splashing, swirling!
Gradually, however, the flowing water drew
all the busy tension out of me.
Tension?
Me?
It's surprising the crap that you drag
around with you, day in and day out, isn't
it?
Finally, like spring itself, I just sit
there, wet ass and all.
Another nice thing about living where I do? By the time I got to where anyone might notice, my pants were dry.