Autumn is settling in, the leaves are crispy underfoot, and the sparkle on the river is courtesy of a sun meeting the trees a little earlier each day. Come walk with me …
The path to the river is thick and overgrown with the remains of summer. It’s just a step over the old, forgotten railroad tracks and through barely matted weeds to the crest overlooking the river’s edge.
Greens become burgundy and slowly drape over a slate walkway.
A faceless wraith overlooking the road to the bridge.
Late afternoon shadows fall across dried leaves, grass, and the road, which runs parallel to the river.
Froggy statuary graces a small garden spot. I am tipping my hat to Portland as I pass.
The Delaware River, looking north, a view that never wears thin, especially when it reflects a sky so insistently blue.
Covered with tombstones, ghosts, and mums, my neighbor’s fence looks even spookier at night with orange and purple lights, a big draw to Halloween night’s trick or treaters.
I never fail to be aware, and grateful, for the beauty and kindness that surrounds me where I live. Especially now. Quality of life counts for a lot.
Home is such an important place. A place to just be yourself, to relax, a refuge, a place to foster growth, a cocoon of dreams, an inspiration of life, a place to heal, and so much more.
April is National Poetry Month, so I’m offering this lovely poem by Christopher Marlowe.
Song for A Little House
I’m glad our house is a little house, Not too tall nor too wide. I’m glad the hovering butterflies Feel free to come inside.
Our little house is a friendly house. It is not shy or vain; It gossips with the talking trees, And makes friends with the rain.
And quick leaves cast a shimmer of green Against our whited walls, And in the phlox, the courteous bees Are paying duty calls. – Christopher Marlowe
But home is not just the structure itself; it is also the place, the neighborhood, the city, the town. They’re all part of “home.” And so, a few more photos of my home, as spring comes slowly into bloom. Above, the trees, just beginning to green up, and their late afternoon shadows accompany me on my walk along the river to the bridge.
Looking north, life is just awakening from slumber. This sentinel, which has steadfastly looked over the river for the 19 years I’ve lived here and much longer, is now showing the most shy of buds.
Crossing the Delaware River to Pennsylvania, where the blush of green in the trees is heartening.
Forsythia in bloom around one of our many turn-of-the-century homes, with the Chestnut Hill B`n B just behind.
Home is where we walk, where we become, and who we are for however long we stay.
The sun has not shown its face all day, there is a chill in the air, and I felt a call to go walking. The Delaware River, rippling in the breeze beneath a moody sky, has a flawless beauty in every kind of weather.
The last roses of summer tangle with a shrub with red feathery flowers under a tree slipping into her bronze foliage.
This small ancient barn and its weathered doors still hold some fascination for me. They are such a willing photographic subject.
The tracks heading north out of town and the surrounding greenery were recently treated to a little freshening up for a townwide event. Once upon a time, these tracks were used by trains hauling grain from the town’s mill to destinations both north and south.
I recently saw some advice – “Walk Happy.” I like that advice.
It was a gorgeous, sunny, spring day, so I decided to get out and take a walk down to the river. I was pleased to find that the dead brush had all been cleared. Now I could easily cross the overgrown and abandoned train tracks to the top of the steep incline that slides down to a plateau approaching the river.
I was even more pleased to see that someone had put in some makeshift stairs on that slope, and I could now walk up to the water’s edge (and a good drop.) But something else was different. There was a walking path going north and south, paralleling the river. And while I took some photos, I watched someone hiking south on it. This was new, and I loved it.
It wasn’t an “official” path, but worn enough that it could easily be followed. I don’t know its starting or ending points, but that people could walk the river just made me real happy.
Meanwhile, it was my plan to walk north, check out the Delaware from the bridge, and see how spring was looking in our town. There were lots of cherry trees in bloom, red maples, tulips, and other plants and trees coming into flower.
I don’t know what these large, soft, fuzzy buds will bring, but I love them — like small, alien creatures reaching out to greet me as I pass by.
A view of the bridge from the greening trees near its approach. Soon these trees will fill out and the bridge will become invisible.
White-barked trees, likely sycamores, at the water’s edge are just coming into leaf. Looking north, the river seems endless on this sunny day.
Just a stone’s throw from the bridge, and with a gorgeous view of the river for those who come visit, is our town’s lovely B `n B, Chestnut Hill on the Delaware.
Today, I look out my window to quite a different view. Rain has been falling all day and will continue through the weekend. The wind is whipping up and the temperature dropping, but it’s all good. We need the rain, and there are always walks to be had, always changes and growth in the trees, shrubs and flowers to be seen. I am so grateful to live where I do, to have such beauty around me. It is a gift.
As I sat in the corner of the couch next to the front window, journaling as I do each morning, Jazzy curled up next to me, I looked outside. It was breathtaking. The sun had barely risen and there was a low fog clinging to the ground.
If I were the kind of person to run outside at that hour in my bathrobe, I would have been everywhere, taking pictures of the neighborhood in that ethereal atmosphere. But I am not. I waited until I had showered, made coffee, fed Jazzy, and then I ran out. The sun was just clearing the mist, and casting shadows across a large pine and the leaves along the road’s edge.
At the end of the block, the mist was thinning on the river. This is a view of the Delaware that I never tire of, though I love it most in fall and winter. The white tree – perhaps a sycamore – always just pops in the landscape, like someone took a brush and painted it there.
I walked past this tree that seems aflame. The color is so all-consuming that I honestly can’t remember what it was before, if it was ever green. Even as I write this, I’m smiling, because some of my gardener and blogging friends probably know exactly what all these trees are. Me? I’m by and large a humble fan.
Before I came to this side of the state, I didn’t know what rural delivery was. Sure, you saw mailboxes like those above in movies, but my mail had never been delivered like that. It came in the mailboxes on our houses or in apartment vestibules, and we dropped our mail off in the big, blue mailbox on the corner, or at the post office. Here, I can put outgoing mail in my mailbox, pull up the little red flag, and the postal driver takes it away. I found this convenience magical.
My neighbor texted a photo to me on Halloween, showing me how an ancient tree that had been slowly dropping lower and lower over the nearby street had finally given up and broken. Local traffic could not pass, and this would undoubtedly be a problem for trick-or-treaters. Soon after, I heard the sound of chain saws. This morning I had the first moment to look at the tree, one I’d known and passed by for fifteen years. It was a sad sight, yet I couldn’t help but notice the bright yellow sprout, now visible behind the remains of the aged tree, as if carrying on the torch of the brilliance of life.
I am always awed by the beauty of this river, whether edged with crisping rust leaves, swollen and grey after a storm, or reflecting a bright blue sky on a sunny day. I am so grateful for the richness around me, even that which can be found on a short walk. The simplicity of our natural world is such a balm to all the worries and negativity of the world that might assault us if we’re not careful.
There is so much to be thankful for … in this brief moment of time in which a holiday reminds us to consider our many gifts, but also in every day. We only need to remember and look around us.
Still A Dreamer 