The mornings are bright here, the air more open. I am greedily inhaling the first breezes and thin birdsong. The path is hard, caked and dried with beaten down mud. I step with heaviness, my toddler in the hiking pack. This added density is not new to me; there have been many trails and many backpacks that have pressed and prodded at my muscles and bones. This morning the weight is not only physical, it plants itself gently in the back of my mind, enjoying a soft emotional persistence.

These new colors, dusted off in pale morning light, require my attention and now my enunciation. My son points and burbles, excited at each passing sparrow or cottonwood seed. He watches from on high, sponge-like, soaking in the clouds and scotch broom. I feel the gentle tug at the back of my brain, pulling the words from my throat for each new item on the natural curiosities checklist. “Thistles,” I say, walking close enough for my son’s tiny foot to nudge the stock. “Swift,” I announce, following the bird with an outstretched finger as it taunts the dog beside us with an aerial agility he cannot achieve, though he picks up the chase anyway.

The lake we visit in these open acres is tucked behind a mound of brambles. It gets smaller each day, as summer laps it back up into the sky. Due to the early visit and its smallness, we are often the only three here. A deeper river runs further away, the bank a much grander proclamation for canine and human alike. For us three, we prefer the smallness, the daily change as the water evaporates a little more. We document the differences by leaving our imprints in that morning’s newly exposed muck. The dog in our threesome, goes forth with more grace, picking his paws delicately out of the shallow mud in order to wade deeper.

Despite the smallness, our lake maintains a richness in life that compels my son and I to return. Birds roost among the grasses that edge the flat banks, their rustles and murmurs causing us to squint, hoping to catch a wing or a beak. The blackberries that clog up one corner of the bank are heavy with fruit, their green, unripe clusters nodding down in a constant gravitational surrender. I tell my child about all of these things: I tell him about the disappearing water and the hidden birds. I ask him to point out sticks so the dog can splash through the lake’s shallow remains and we can feel the spray when he inevitably shakes off all over us.

We leave our squishy, ancient footsteps behind as we continue back into dry fields; the black dog now slick with water and undercarriage thick with mud. Small planes hum from behind us, gaining in size and sound as they soar overhead. My son is delighted, gushing forth a squealed approximation of “plane!” I uncomfortably admire these reminders of the world outside our shrinking lake and rattle-dry fields. Humanity’s aerial appropriation is memorizing, but it feels clunky here, among the small birds.

We follow the same paths each morning, the damp dog leading with distracted purpose, his nose deep in low bushes or tall grass. Despite the identical daily route, no smell is the same, no tree is the same. Tiny creatures have pressed against the bark, beetles have taken home under new leaves, and each of these things requires the damp dog’s direct attention. As I walk behind him, my skin warms, freckles filled with sunlight. I seek the trees.

I unclip the pack, prying open the rusty kickstand. Plucking my son from the buckles and straps I place him down on the trail and let him explore. The dog and I exchange a mutual stretch and groan. I rub at my sore neck and hips as I watch my son tromp ahead. He pauses at a mole hill, crouching down to stick his fingers in the soft dirt, before flinging it at the ferns growing nearby. He stays here for a long time, intimately getting to know that mound of dirt. I am forced to patience, even as I start to calculate the drive home and his nap, the heat that is beginning to pile up outside these trees, the errands that still need doing.

Eventually my toddler moves on, ready to move deeper into the woods. Only occasionally do I step in, to keep his pudgy hands from grabbing nettles; to stop him from tumbling into the rocks. His complete lack of temporal awareness is his greatest gift. As the pressure of my to-do list mounts in me, his bewilderment at cotton fluff drifting by absorbs him for full, contemplative minutes. I soak in as much of his wonder as I can, before depositing him back in the pack. This process is never smooth, as he would spend his whole day exploring these woods. The tantrum is short-lived as I know a secret cache of newly ripe blackberries the next path over. However, I understand his frustration. I also wish we could spend the whole day under those cottonwoods, touching ferns, and running our hands through the dirt.

 

~ An Aside ~

It’s clearly December, the new year is upon us. This is a piece I started writing many months ago and I finally found myself creatively inspired again to revisit my blog and this bit of unfinished nature and parent writing. I hope you like it. I’d like to do more posts of this sort, a bit more of a story, a bit less of a diary ramble. But as with most things, the best intentions have a way of adapting to new circumstances. I find myself very busy and carving out time in my mind and my day for creativity is challenging. I’m hoping in 2018 I can figure out a way to continue feeding my soul through regular writing.