Here is the Root of the Root

Here is the Root of the Root

It was the chatter in the birds, and the pitter patter of the dogs. It was the pounding of the hidden animals and the resounding heartbeat of the runners movements. The reeds whispered in a secret manner, the winds answered their call, echoing like the blood in human veins. Cars still roared in the distance and boats still thundered on the river, but when the ripples cleared, the river still ebbs and flows, and the sun still made the surface shine with diamonds, slinking under the sun’s rays. Here is where industry can not touch, here is where technology has no place, here is where friends and family are welcome to come and be part of the view.

Calm, quite, and genuine-- this park is of the nature of a more subtle beauty. Walking on the path you can here the crunch of steps, the squish and pop of movements on mud, the sizzle of the pressure on rocks, and when looked upon closely, you can see the simple art of the prints of animal and man, migrating through the play of shadow and light, and the shades of grey in between. Standing taller than my person are stalks and trees, watching and whispering, communicating with the animals below and above to be loud or quite, and sometimes both, as if they were indifferent to the pace of man. There are no building here, in this careful place, and so there is nothing to stop the shadows from moving and playing in time with the sun. The people enjoying the scenery are indifferent to the shadows, moving through both in tinted shades, sometimes alone, sometimes together, sometimes laughing, and always inviting towards the passerby’s. All would agree that there is no violence: the land is blanketed in peace and calm.

I move. I stop. I admire. There is no rush in this special place with the flowing river and the friendly faces and the humming animals and the murmuring stalks and the life in the rhythm of the run, only contentment. The wild grass escapes through cracks in the ground. The wild grass dances in time the wind. The wild grass comes in all the warm colors-- colors of red and honey and gold and burgundy and mahogany and sunlight and mud and clay and the colors of a child’s play. No man has ever recreated the beauty of nature, but nature inspires the beauty of man. It inspires the symmetry, the colors, and the careless freedom, and invokes the temper, the emotions, and the strive for balance.

The view in the distance is that of rolling hills and thriving trees. The nearness is warm and comforting but the view is crisp and clear; the path is comfortable but those rolling hills look yet unexplored; the standing spot is reality, close enough to experience, but the distance is like dream, just out of reach. This worn Eden is close at hand, and touches, and is touched, by the scores of people who journey hear. Some part of it is land and another part is water; some part of it is spotted with paw prints and another is dotted with downy feathers; some part of it is littered with fishermen and another part is filled with fish; some part of it is the best of times and the other part of it is the even better times. The best part this place is not the friendship made between man with man and nature with nature but the connection that man forges with nature and nature forges with man.

The inhabitants and visitors-- man and dogs, children and birds, grandparent and underground dwellers-- find peace and a home and a connection with friends, both neighbor and stranger, through smiles and half smiles, through nods and tip of the hats, and through words of hello and mumbles between pressed teeth and thin lips. The noises obvious and subtle-- the croaks and pounds and thumps and pants and reels and crunches and hissing and cracks and calls and laughter-- make the beautiful symphony that is nature, make the beautiful symphonies that the greatest composers could only try to imitate. The old and young are a part of these symphonies: some clopp through with canes in one hand and their spouses hand in the other, and others push through on squeaky, uneven training wheels, and some are even being pushed in strollers, by mothers looking for some peace. The beat of this music hides the steady rhythm of the heartbeat and in the words of E.E. Cummings, "here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows higher than the soul can hope or the mind can hide)." Here is Sholenberger Park.

~Valerie C.