Thank you, William Penn

It is springtime in the woods of Pennsylvania.

Last Friday, I couldn’t get out of New York fast enough. I yearned to put my hands in the dirt, to listen to the birds by the stream, to see the daffodils’ shocking color against the green floor of the forest. And I wanted the stillness that I can only find by my stream, listening to the rhythm of the water as it passes over boulders on its way to the river. It was a short trip, just an overnight , then back to New York.

Of course there were obstacles to this pastoral interlude. I had promised to care for my grandson on Friday night so the soon-to-be parents-of-two could have a night out together. So, I got a train Saturday morning at 7 a.m., traveling light, just a tote bag and my computer. As I reached my seat, I realized that I had left my car key in my apartment, so I had no transportation at the other end. My place is in the far suburbs where the definition of a taxi is a limo driver who you hire well in advance. Called my dear friend, Ann, and, god bless her, she agreed to meet my train.

I had my own row on the train, so I could spread out, and the train was, thankfully, nearly empty. I like early trains because generally, people aren’t too chatty. Quiet suits me just fine on train rides. I like to use the time to catch up on my reading, to watch the seasons change out the window, or to write a post to you, dear reader.

Ann and I drove through the familiar roads, green and sprouting buds everywhere, I was suddenly more settled, more grounded. I could see the big old magnolia as we turned the bend near my place, the soft, graceful petals still shaped like cups. The yellow and white faces of jonquils dotted the landscape—shooting straight up from under brush and last year’s brittle leaves, peeking out from the curve of the groundcover and tiny wildflowers along the edge of the stream.

This is my time of year. I love the simplicity of it -- easy clothing, abundant produce, access to the outside. I love the heat, the humidity, going barefoot, swimming every day, the night sky, the morning sounds.

This morning, Ann and I met at Valley Forge Park, the wonderful national treasure west of Philadelphia. As we walked along the Schuykill River, we watched dozens of geese sun themselves in the shallows, strode by hundreds of blooming bluebells, and greeted other walkers on the curving path. It’s a funny thing about good friends—you pick up where you left off last time you were together—without need for a backstory. You just remember.

I talked about Augustine, the 4th century bishop, a giant in the Christian tradition. ( Really, I wasn't proselytizing just remarking at what a rascal he had been as a young man. Ann asked questions, so... ). I rambled on, I suppose, about his life, his impact on that time in history, his impact on Christians for centuries afterward. Ann talked about her work as a busy attorney, her girls who are like godchildren to me, and the trips she is looking forward to in the coming months. We talked about trying a triathlon this summer. Just the stuff friends do when they're together.

I drove home with the top down on my little red Miata , Bonnie Raitt declaring “ I can’t make you love me, if you won’t”. Even pumping gas had a romance to it today, as I tilted my head toward the sun, one hand on the gas nozzle, the other on my hip.
M.C.