Good morning and happy wednesday, hoddlers. it feels like i haven’t wished you all a happy wednesday since last week.
There is a park in Fairfield County, Connecticut, that I have visited often since Covid-19 breached the barriers of the United States. At the park are five benches, one man-made pond, two fountains and myriad trees that house rivalling factions of geese.
For the past two years your hoddler-in-chief has gingerly walked along the park’s goose-stool studded walkpath - in the autumn, the winter, the spring and the summer. And while time accelerated ever forward, and your hoddler-in-chief irreversibly aged, the goose stool remained the same. Green capsules dotted along the asphalt and grass orbited the oblong body of water.
And at approximately the same time every night the geese would honk, flap their wings and ascend into the skies to whatever their nocturnal destination may have been.
And so the seasons turned - winter, spring, summer and autumn.
In the winter the pond froze and the fountains ceased activity. The rare goose chased the unsuspecting human intruder. Children, teenagers and parents skated on the ice. Some played hockey, others circled around the tiny mass of land in the pond’s northern half.
A woman walked her dog, sat down on the bench and looked outward. What she saw, what she thought, I do not know. All I hope is she was at peace.
Months passed and the climate encroached non-freezing temperatures, and so the season turned once more - spring, summer, winter, autumn.
Your hoddler-in-chief discards his beanie and dons his aviators. The sunshine warms his fair complexion.
A trail of fowl stool leads to a deciduous tree, under which a goose sits atop its eggs. Soon hatchlings will sprout, and territorial wars will erupt.
Trees once barren sprout new life. Buds that were teased by the sun’s rays now demonstratively stretch from khaki branches, displaying glorious shades of green, white and rose. A woman walks her dog, sits down on a bench and throws on her sunglasses. She - a park-regular, too - exchanges pleasantries with your hoddler-in-chief, for they have both navigated the goose-stool laden path for two years now.
Your hoddler-in-chief sits on a bench overlooking a pond on whom once supported the weight of toddlers and adults alike. Now in its velvety embrace it welcomes ducks, geese and other waterfowl. The fountains again burst into life, droplets of water form ripples that brush against smooth rocks.
A wild breeze pulsates the branches of trees. The fresh buds, resilient in their youth, hang onto the branches. The mother goose, resilient in her care, rests atop her eggs. Your hoddler-in-chief, resplendent in his zen, breathes in spring air.
Winter parkas return to their dormancy, abandoned in closets’ dark enclaves.
Your hoddler-in-chief once frequented this park to drink his coffee. That was long before restaurants opened up. Now he sits, opens his notebook, and writes. Let the sunshine seep through us all and inspire us to reflect the vibrancy with which it begs us to celebrate its presence.
Sometimes your hoddler-in-chief does not write at all.
Spring remains spring.
Sometimes nothing is more peaceful than sitting on a bench, tip-toeing around goose stool and wading through the vibrant green buds of cherry trees.
Fitzie’s track of the day: Kick Drum Heart, by The Avett Brothers
And now for your links:
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