There are days when I miss being here, blogging. It's easy to think this way, but it already seems like a simpler time. Instead, now, meted out meanderings and truths left unspoken. A sudden feeling of time lost to clouded judgement.
But bookending these days of strange second-guessing have been easy walks to and from work. Verdant trails up and down the hill. As a rule, I never walk back the same way I came. And so I go down by the leafy streets of Rosedale, a neighbourhood I share in the spoils of but am too poor to be part of. And I come back by way of ravine trails, which sink deep below street level and all the complicated unbelonging.
I walk slowly, listening to the creek, picking out what has changed since yesterday and the day before. This weekend delivered doilies of Queen Anne's Lace on the ravine floor. In the smallness of these changes, I feel calm. I lean into certain turns on the path. I pick out the bark of one tree and decide it's my favourite. I look for a patch of light and a reflection that's only there on certain days, but feels like a secret when it returns. And I forget about the mistakes that led me here and let the verdancy fill me up.