Walking is my time to think, to observe and to remember. I am fortunate to have a network of connected nearby neighborhoods intermixed with forest trails and meandering streams. Thank you Chapel Hill. Last week my daughter and I explored a new path connecting the highschool and middle school, both of which my daughter attended back in the day. She explained to me that THIS was the spot where THAT happened, spooling through memories like they were yesterday which, in the larger sense, they are.
I avoid walking the forest paths at night because, duh. I have found myself in the deep woods after sunset quite by accident, where the fiercest enemy is your imagination and every sound becomes the thudding enormity of a black bear or the skittering rush of a pack of hungry wolves. Don’t be surprised if I am found some morning curled into a fetal position under an ancient oak, muttering wordless incantations in a language we once knew but have forgotten.
Night walks are therefore restricted to our neighborhood along sidewalks safely bathed in the artificial glare of wolf-proof street lights. The streets now are nearly devoid of cars and I often come across other walkers ambling down the middle of the road, reclaiming the pavement like the invasive species we are. One night I walked passed a house where an outdoor birthday celebration was underway — the candles of a large cake flickering like fireflies. I guess they could have BEEN fireflies, which would have made it a birthday to remember indeed. The birthday boy emerged, eyes glittering, serenaded by The Song.
The Happy Birthday Song marks a moment in time when the bears rest and the fireflies sing and we sense a life emerging, a life better than the one we left behind.
whoisfenton 