right there in front of me

My artist date yesterday consisted of exploring a neighborhood across the large and busy street I live on. It's not that the street is even all that hard to cross, but I've had a sort of mental barrier, and I haven't ended up going over there much at all since I've lived here. I did, however, have a memory from a walk last summer of a tiny and pathetic neglected park somewhere around here - not sure where - with a couple of sorry little swings and forlorn basketball hoops. And here's the crazy part: I remembered that the park, such as it was, was next to some woods. And if you only poked your head into the woods, you'd see right away that there was a big lovely brook back there. Not big enough for a beachy bank, but, you know, pretty enough to sit by and even wade or dunk your sweaty self in on a summer day. How could I not go back there all this time?

I've been meaning for what seems like ages to get back to that brook. In fact, as I prepare to welcome a child (whenever it's time), I have lamented the "fact" that there is no little park within easy walking distance from my house. Wouldn't it be sweet, I thought, if I could put the little one in the stroller, pack a blanket and some lunch, and head out for an excursion? In my memory the sad little park near the brook seemed far away and hard to get to. You see, my town is in a very hilly valley. It's quite pretty, but not the best place to, say, take a long bike ride. And for a big Sweaty McGee like me, any walk around here tends to mean having to change clothes upon returning home.

Then there's the architecture. The neighborhood in question, along with other developments near my 1908 farmhouse, was obviously built in the sixties; it's all ranch houses, and gaudy split-level numbers with superfluous pillars ridiculously adorning the front entrances. Depressing.

Or so I remembered.

Yesterday for the second time ever, I walked up the street that practically intersects with my driveway, were it not for the thoroughfare between. Up a short hill, past the thirty foot retaining wall built from old tires (which I find inexplicably charming), around a corner, down a little dip, and - what's this?! The friggin' park is RIGHT THERE. No sweating required. I could practically see my house from where I stood.

I walked across a still-snowy brushy area just before the park, through some trees, and there it was: the prettiest little brook you'd ever hope to see. The sun poured down. The bare trees broke the light like stained glass in a cathedral. The water rushed and murmured happily. It was like the spot knew I was across the street all along, and greeted me then by throwing an arm around my waist and laughing, "What took you so long?"

I walked along next to the brook for awhile, just exploring. So many places to sit with a book or a journal or a guitar. So many holy stands and radiant clearings. I didn't see a single beer can, condom, or slick of shattered glass. It was heavenly.

When I hit private property, I turned back and investigated the little park. The swings are not at all pathetic! They're in good shape, though they're probably too small for me to really get going on (darnit). One is made for a baby. The slide looked good, too - very shiny. The basketball hoops, well... they stood about twenty feet apart and faced the same direction, though the park area was big enough for a small court. But the really perverse bit there was that there was no pavement under them. Who plays basketball on grass? I can see why I was left with a sorry impression of the park from those bizzarre monuments to civic budget cuts. However. Overall, this was clearly a lovely place to bring a baby and some lunch. And while I wait for the baby to show up and make our lunch date, I will be visiting my new friend the brook often. Hopefully daily.

For good measure, I also took a spin around the neighborhood beyond. The street is a big circle, which is awfully appealing for walks. The couple sitting on their porch laughing and talking as I walked by waved back to me warmly. A good sign. And, funny thing - the houses that had looked so crappy and sad to me last summer looked somehow friendly and sweet yesterday afternoon. I loved the garish trim colors. I... okay, the pillars still look dumb to me. But the wind whispered through the tall trees, I greeted my first spring robin (and made a wish - thanks, Kara), and all was right with the world.

It's very funny to me, perfect for the time and not at all surprising, that this happy little haunt has been right under my nose these nearly two years, while I have sat around on the couch, slightly disgruntled about living on a busy street. Behind the house and across a side street is another section of the same brook, but there it's all maddeningly ensconced within private property. Phooey. Meanwhile, all I had to do was cross the street, try a different angle, and New England's stony and tree lined holy ground would spread out before me like an ancient invitation. Somehow, since I had the memory of the park, I must have managed to see this outstretched arm of God once before without seeing it. I guess I wasn't ready to accept the invitation until now.