I’ve just come from a scooter ride. It was cold and damp and dark, and miserable, and I hurt. The paths were bumpy, they get bumpier with each passing year and I’ve had a lot of those.
Each bump hurt. And the sun was hidden in some secret place where I fear it will remain until the spring. Even the peacocks were walking about dispiritedly, their marvellous feathers dragging on the grass.
I had reached the nadir of misery.
Once on my way, though, I kept on, for no particular reason. But then I came upon a blue wire fence.
Hmm, I thought, there is a mystery here. If there is a fence it is because something must be kept in, or out, à la Robert Frost’s haunting poem. It was a dull day (as I think I said before), and this fence was in the shadows of tall trees. I got off my scooter and grabbed my cane to take a look.
In the shadows there was something quite large lying on the ground, maybe about 12 feet long. I could see mossy humps, a grey cement hand, and finally a large cement face with a soft smile.
As I connected the dots, I realized someone had made magic. Here was a maiden lying in the cold and damp, clad in moss, with a mass of Crocosmia hair just coming into flower.
She looked as if she had grown there, and she did; she wasn’t there last fall. And not only was she not complaining, she was smiling a gentle smile, in tune with the earth, lying quietly, very much a part of it with her mossy clothes.
I didn’t know who the someone was who put her there, but as I moved slowly away, her memory stayed with me as I travelled on.
The paths were still bumpy, and it was cold and damp, but it wasn’t windy, and there was no sun to blind me. The park was bedded down for the winter but there were a few flowers abloom.
I scooted over to a smoother path. The tall totem pole was still there guarding a spooky woods, dark now, so it is nice to be outside at the meadow’s edge.
I crossed over to the sea path where the dogs are allowed to roam free. I enjoyed encounters with them, especially when they charge up to me for a greeting. One big happy fellow offered his ball to throw, his lips dripping saliva. Fortunately his owner came by to rescue me.
I turn toward home, noting the new buds on the Indian plum. It will bloom in a few months, our first native flower. I take a final look at the quiet sea, and the mountains far across, grey now in the dwindling light, preparing for the whiteness of their winter.
Once home, with scooter parked in the garage, I make tea and reflect. I remember my ride and think how delightful it became.
I found a moss maiden resting in the dark, and flowers. I went by a dark wood and saw the sea and played with dogs. I looked far across at the mountains beyond, and saw, so near at hand, the Indian plum with its promise of renewal when the dark days are over.
My life is full, and despite my years, and pain, and weakness, it is good.
Jo Manning is an artist who lives adjacent to Beacon Hill Park.
