Strolling has become a new pasttime for our family, particularly on a hapless, lazy day. After being spirtually engaged (and fed), we spend the latter part of afternoon in slumber, reading, studying, in quite solititde. We use the day as it was intended for, and then the afternoon cools down.
There isn't a certainity to the hour, but we feel it. Is it the way the hour feels? The way the Sun shines through the glass? The children's consistent approach? Whatever it may be, we just feel it.
Dusk is here, and we set out. I grab my writing pad. The children grab trinkets and small toys. Daddy reaches for a canister of water. We drive down the winding road. I see my breathe form on the window, and find myself wiping the droplets that have formed beneath my nose. We can't escape the wet air.
We get to the riverwalk. I can feel the breeze off the river. The bullfrogs croak. The Spanish music is flaring from the culture hall across the street. We head down the hill, and start our walk. There are always stops.
A Spanish mossed covered tree, or as I call, our doorman who greets us. There is the bridge that spans to there other side. It's covered in old cobwebs. Spiders who have deserted home for the summer. The large red barn sitting parralell to the bridge. If I close my eyes long enough, I can hear the water wheels inside hugging, spitting, and hissing-- the city's water. There is the waterfall that ebbs and flows into small rapids, portruding black rocks at the bottom that remind me of whoopie pies. The cool wading spot for our toes.
Every stroll is different. Bittersweet. Longing. Never repeating. Always informing. I hope that I can take more opportunities to venture out, and take in the wonderful, natural world. More camping. More hiking. More shared moments with my family.
