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A Natural TonicBy Jill Schensul I had way too much work to do; I was, in fact, planning to go into the office on that recent bright and sunny Sunday. But when my husband, Paul, stood there, Poncho beside him in his green halter and leash, and asked if I wanted to go for a hike, I knew I couldn't say no. The lecture I'd get about being a workaholic would probably last longer than the hike itself. I hesitated, resigning myself to an even later night of work. Then, cleverly, I suggested we take a hike at the Allendale Celery Farm, a Green Acres site all three of us love, and just a short drive up Route 17. Not only was the ride up quick, but the main trail around the lake could be done in 45 minutes, if I walked fast. I could be sitting at my desk sifting through notes in two hours, I calculated silently, hurrying into the car. My plan dissolved about four paces into the trail, when an oriole greeted us with a throaty song. Paul pointed into the trees, and I followed the line of his finger with the binoculars, to the song's source. The bird was the most beautiful color of orange I had ever seen. It was endlessly orange, glowing, otherworldly. His feathers glowed like a melting, setting sun. Suddenly, all that orangeness blinded my vision of stacks of notes and press releases. Poncho, in the meantime, was engaged in ripping up dainty mouthfuls of tender new shoots. In some reeds to my right, a distinct plop signaled the presence of this year's crop of frogs. Paul was beside himself at his good fortune. We walked on, the thump of our sneakers on the decaying leaves and the tinkle of Poncho's tags setting up a propulsive rhythm. We stopped in our tracks at the sight of another oriole; just a few branches below him, my binoculars caught sight of a yellow warbler, almost as yellow as the oriole was orange. Something rustled in the thicket of cattails. A goose opened his orange beak to show off a pink mouth and tongue; her best defense of her flotilla of babies. All her hissing at Poncho went unnoticed, however; he wandered past obliviously, intent in his search for edibles. We rounded the north end of the lake as the sun climbed higher in the sky, warming the breeze to a delicious, not-too-hot springtime temperature. Thoughts of the stories waiting to be written flitted in one part of my brain and out the other, pulled along in the wake of a butterfly drifting by on the heat. From a bird observation platform, we watched an egret make a surprisingly graceful landing into the lake. The water twinkled around him, casting him in high silhouette. Thoughts of how much I loved this place crowded out the clutter of angst in my brain. With every footstep here in nature, something new was possible. A cottontail lumbered off in front of us; a fiddlehead fern imperceptibly unfurled in the undergrowth; the perfume of flowers overwhelmed a few paces on the trail, disappearing as quickly as it had appeared. My head had stopped hurting, and, holding Paul's hand as we walked along the trail, I remembered how long it had been since we'd even walked side by side.
It was as we crossed a tiny wooden bridge into a forest trail that we decided we would move to the country. It seemed so obvious, all of a sudden. No question, we would do it. All at once it was unthinkable to stay part of the rat race; to keep ourselves away any longer from the natural state that inevitably lifted our spirits and made us smile. Having deer at our back door at sunset, waking to a racket of singing birds at sunrise, had always been a dream. All at once we knew we could make that dream a reality. A simple walk through our magical little place, a bit of suburbia that had luckily been put aside for the birds and the snakes and even the poison ivy -- and us -- had put us on a new course. Which is what natural places are all about. They remain to remind us about the greater scheme of things. To tell us, oh so eloquently, that our lives -- and their concurrent worries -- are very, very insignificant in that scheme. We did not need the millions of acres and the fancy ''big animals'' of Yellowstone to inspire our epiphany. The lessons of nature are all around us. The nobility of her creatures, the elegance of her systems, are simply waiting for us to pay attention to them. And learn from them. Next time somebody tells you to ''go take a hike,'' give them a great big smile, and a thank-you. Copyright © 1996 Bergen
Record Corp.
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