A Walk to the Park

The nearest park to me is a ten-minute walk. Unless you’re walking with my five-year-old. He takes his time. As we work our way down the road, his hands glide over the rough stone wall. His feet shuffle through the leaves. He stops to observe a bug scurrying, or smell a rose. His interest extends to thorns, so in my caution I hurry him along. I fear he is too young to learn of nature’s dangerous side; like Siddhartha’s father, I try to keep such truths from him, to preserve his innocence “just a little longer.”

I, on the other hand, know the way of the world, so my journey is much quicker. I don’t bother with the wall, I don’t trundle through the leaves, or gaze at the beetles or smell the flowers. I am well-trained to steer clear of thorns. My attention is focused not on these blessings but on obstacles – cars, construction, slow walkers. I rarely journey to the park on my own: it’s usually part of a shopping trip, or if I have a few minutes in the afternoon. And when I get there I hear the siren call of productivity luring me back to my computer and commitments. So all-in-all it is an exercise for my legs more than anything else.

I cannot help but conclude that compared to my son’s amble, my journey is the poorer. Striving to be more wary I become less aware. It’s good to stretch the muscles, but better to stretch the soul. It’s good to breathe in some fresh air, but better to breathe in the spirit of all creation.