Beckoned outdoors by the warm, sunny day, I hit the trails. I thought I'd have a look at the heavy-and-I-mean-heavy bench that Mike and John hauled out to the appropriately named Heavy Bench Trail last fall. The man we bought the beautiful bench from told us to protect it during the winter months with a cover, which we never got around to doing.
As I approached, I saw that someone (thing) had been using the bench. Nutshells — nutritious interiors long gone — provided the evidence. I imagined a glossy-eyed, fluffy squirrel scurrying onto the bench to enjoy its nutty breakfast, and I liked the thought. I let the shells be and sat down between them.
Fallen leaves carpeted the soft, moist ground; and the heel of my boot sunk in beneath the weight of my crossed ankles. With the woodland understory winter-bare, I could easily see the house in the distance; yet I felt like I'd escaped to a secret, sacred place — a place where everything is working perfectly. I'm glad I was there.
The answer must be, I think, that beauty and grace are performed whether or not we will or sense them. The least we can do is try to be there.
— Annie Dillard, American author
lovely to see you there (in part) on that bench soaking up the environs. and all the crisp leaves underfoot. I think you created a little haven there. And we need those more than ever.
