A couple days ago, I was working on my computer when my body spazzed out and demanded that I take a walk right now. (My body has a knack for knowing when I need to walk, which somewhat makes up for its complete lack of dessert monitoring.) Since I was visiting my friend in St. Louis city, I soon found myself speed-walking down a path in Forest Park.
Within a few minutes the Grand Basin stretched out to my right, a huge rippling pool sprouting with pinnacles of white fountains, with the wide greenness of Art Hill as a tapestry behind it. I walked up Art Hill, looped around the statue of St. Louis astride his steed, and started back down the slope, where I was greeted by one small wonder after another.
First, I saw some cyclists straight out of a sporty chick-flick: these four young women sprawled on the lawn, their bikes tossed to the side, their picnic gear strewn about them as if they’d just dropped out of the sky. They chatted and ate trail mix, lounging their lean bodies on the grass.
Just a few yards later, I saw a husband and wife and their barely-not-a-toddler child. Their chocolate-colored skin gleamed in the sunlight, putting my pasty hue to shame, as the father tossed a softball at his son. The boy, sporting a fluffy mohawk, swung at the ball in slow motion, missing it by a foot. He looked no less determined to succeed by this.
At the corner of the Grand Basin, a jogger sat in the lotus position on a wide railing, his shoes placed neatly beside him, his sweat socks still on. He had his eyes closed, his body soaked in the vivid light of the setting sun. Even though he was motionless, he seemed full of life, ready to jump up and keep running at any moment.
Near the fountains, a young serious couple sat on a bench. The boy had a guitar with rattling strings, and he plucked out a tune as if his life depended on grappling the notes from his cheap instrument. His girlfriend sat listening gravely.
A nearby contrast was the group of wannabe hippies, shouldering their hula hoops as if just concluding a class. Their flipped back their dreadlocks and wiped sweaty hands on their Bob Marley shirts as they laughed and talked.
I deviated from my course a bit to watch a drum circle sitting beneath a tall sycamore. A group of men clustered together with bongos cradled between their knees. Their leader, a young blond man, thumped out one rhythm at a time, then everyone echoed him.
On the other side of the sycamore, two photographers looked through their cameras at a young woman performing aerial yoga. She dangled from two blue ribbons tied to a branch, moving from one position to another with underwater grace.
I stood next to a couple who had set up chairs so they could eat supper while watching the drum circle and yoga performer, and even though we didn’t exchange words, I felt that we shared the experience together.
I walked home happy that day, not only because it was such a beautiful walk, but because I know I’ll be doing this kind of walk again very soon— in Europe.
As you read this, I am probably crammed into an old station wagon with four other people, amid piles of instruments, knapsacks, and a sheep puppet. Rows of corn roll by, interrupted by lines of trees to mark the field boundaries. Tyler’s driving, Adrienne sits in the front seat, and Amanda, Anavah, and I lounge in the back. Yes, I’m on the road again, with Insomniac Folklore.
