As autumn edges toward winter and the clocks have changed, I’ve shifted our daily walk from the morning to after lunch, better light and a chance to walk off the coffee and sandwich. This afternoon, the air feels cool, and my cotton sweater isn’t quite warm enough for comfort. Maybe that’s okay. Perhaps the best walks are the ones where I notice all these little things, like the stiffness in my old ankle injury, the sun barely peeking over the hill, and the smell of fallen apples in the air as we make our way down through the orchards towards the river.
That familiar scent brings me back to my childhood garden. If only I could also smell creosote and bonfire, I could be back raking leaves with my Dad under our fruit trees. It feels like another lifetime.
Bang is always faster than I am, with his tail up and his nose to the ground, zigzagging and searching for windfalls before I can even say “drop!” This is our routine: wandering but steady.
At the river’s edge, he splashes around in the shallow water, happily fetching sticks. His joy is simple, uncomplicated and endless.
I crouch by the water, looking for pieces of pottery, bricks, and glass worn smooth by the river. I’m also on the hunt for pebbles with unique patterns. These little finds seem important in their smallness. I call them treasures, and my 3-year-old grandson and I refer to them as “prettys. I often arrange them in a small offering to the river, knowing it will carry them away eventually. That’s what rivers do. Sometimes I’ll stuff my pockets full of them to bring home. My tiny treasures.
I DON’T WANT TO LEAVE
but the day has other plans, so we make our way home. Still, ideas are beginning to take shape in my mind; sketchbooks, sculpture, cyanotypes all swirling around … how to maintain my art practice during winter…