Walking the leaf-covered path behind our turn-of-the-century house, I seek peace and solace. The hike is a meditation of sorts, the winding trail a teacher of the highest order, if I can stay present.

I pass the aging, overgrown orchard, a remnant of a long-ago landowner, and observe the clusters of scrub and brush that offer shelter to evening forest dwellers.

The sound of the burbling creek stirs memories and interrupts my focus. Suddenly, I am lost in the echoes of children’s voices, the sound of slapping feet on packed dirt, the shrieking laughter of chase and hide-and-go-seek.

I close my eyes and smile, inhaling deeply.

It is spring, April closing into May, and I bring myself back to the sounds of the present…the conk-a-reee of the red-winged blackbird, the call of the eastern phoebe, and the soothing, four-note song of the white-throated sparrow…dee-da-da-da…that catapults me backward into childhood trail hikes in the Adirondacks.

Back and forth I go, present moment into memory, again and again.

I reach the water and slosh my knee-high mud boots through the shallow expanse, feeling my heart ache with nostalgia. My children and their friends once crunched and splashed their way through this natural playground, jumping on fallen twigs, leaping from one bank to the other.

A source of seemingly endless fascination, the shallow water would carry away their dropped sticks and leaves and homemade boats. Following their vessels, they would holler and shout, calling out in dismay when one got stuck in debris, requiring them to wade in. Wet sneakers, muddy clothes, the possibility of insects, all a mere distraction to young minds lost in adventure.

Now teetering on adulthood, my children have their feet planted elsewhere. It is feasible they will never again walk this trail, at least not in the same carefree way they once did. Who knows what lies ahead for any of us; indeed, it has been a hard winter for all.

I walk now with my trusted companion, my sweet-natured chocolate lab who busily noses his way through leaf and stick piles, pausing to inhale the scent of the unseen.

It is a good thing, I think, when we bring our children into this life that we are unable to absorb the reality of the future; the pending departure of these precious people for whom we would do and give anything. It is too much to bear, in the beginning, so we allow ourselves to get lost in the beautiful minutiae: reading the same bedtime stories over and over, picking up the menagerie of toys, navigating the fatigued temper tantrums, holding our breath on the first days of school.

I want my children to be strong and healthy, independent and adventurous with the courage to follow their own paths. I do not wish for them to cling to me or to this expanse of earth we call home. And yet, I am longing.

We cannot go back to those sweet moments filled with laughter and joy. But how wonderful if we could, just once, just briefly feel that thrill and happiness and excitement with them again.

Moving my mind back to the present, I am content to return home with my loyal friend who, face down, roams only so far. Occasionally he stops, picks up his brown head and looks for me. Once assured of my presence he continues carefree with tail wagging.

Still a puppy, he is unencumbered by memory and unaffected by the sadness lifting away from me. Taking his cue, I release the emotion and watch it rise through the trees.

Love and memories wafting upward through the budding forest canopy.

Off they go.

Carry on. Carry on.

 

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