For the last few weeks the kids and I have been taking long leisurely walks around town. We wake up in the mornings, laze our way through an hour or so of 'toons and coffee and usually some waffles before we wander outside. We wander the streets, the cracked old sidewalks, while Norah yammers on about all the things that swirl around inside her head and Max sucks his thumb contentedly, soaking everything in. We walk to the library, around the park and through the neighborhoods, trying to avoid the hills. I love these walks. I love springtime in the South with its literally perfect weather and the green that just bursts up out of nowhere. I mean, one day everything outside is grey and pale yellow, and the next, BAM! all the green. Everywhere green! Green pops out of the trees, the ground, from between the steps on my porch, even out of the concrete. Springtime and its illogical and unstoppable and magical green is enchanting.
So we are walking, walking to get fresh air, to see the green up close, walking to get a better perspective on life, to get our legs and hearts moving and man, just to see things. And there is so much to see! Every day, new things just popping up into our vision.
I had no idea two weeks ago that the little grey house on the corner was sporting a massive rosemary bush in a orange pot on the front law, its piney little bits sticking out like crazy hair. I had never noticed the tiny house a block over and a block down, the one sitting awkwardly on the side of a hill with a teeny strip of space between the back of the house and rock fence, a space that someone has turned into a hidden fort. I'd never seen the turtles sunning themselves on logs underneath the bridge or the massive lilac bushes. Nor had I noticed the house on the corner by the park, the one with old lady panties on the line in the backyard, their voluminous selves flapping in the springtime wind all proud, waving like flags, like happy hands greeting us as we walk by.