It was a lovely day, one of those warm summer evenings that unexpectedly takes your breathe away, almost literally. On entering the park grounds, the subtle winds from the swaying sycamore maple trees kissed my face, sent ripples through my hair and danced with the ends of the checkered scarf that graced my neck. After a long day I felt renewed by the sweet greeting from nature. Sweet didn’t stop there. My palate was awaken by the smell carried through the air, of apples at the peak of their harvest and, from the near by apple farm. At that moment my breath deepened and I took the fresh sweetness in. The book “At Home” by Bill Bryson’s was tucked under my arm as I spread my blanket on the grass, after examining the area for ants and other insects. I settled against one of the many Pink Dogwood trees scattered on the park grounds. Then I got a peaceful feeling as I aligned my back against the bark of the tree with my book “At Home” in my arm. Bewildered at first, I was, but the moments following my puzzled state came one of absolute clarity. I was indeed at home, home with nature. As I glanced at the pigeons on the grass to my right, I became fascinated with their feathers. The interesting shades of grey on some, the cotton white on the others, and how they meshed nicely into each other, intrigued me. That encounter was the closest I’ve had with pigeons and they seem to have been keenly watching me with heads slightly tilted to the side with one eye at a time, to make sure I didn't get any closer, all the while profusely beaking up stuff off of the ground - I would assume crumbs. Daisies of all colors caught my eye; it was a mix red, pink, yellow, and white that seemed to me absolutely splendid. I began like a curious child to count the different colors present all while admiring the Humming birds and bees that surrounded them. I shuddered at the blow of a cool wind, which sent them on their way, flying. My eyes followed them for as long as I could keep track of them, and in doing so the attention of my eyes was caught by the pink sky, that matched the leaves of the Dogwood trees, and with the soft sun behind, it glowed heavenly. I looked at the clouds for a while, foolishly patient. I was hoping to see the face of God somehow. Slowing my attention was rerouted from the sense of sight to that of hearing. I was taken from my daze by the joyous sound of a child's innocent laughter a few trees away. A family occupied the bench me, while a study group was on the other end of the park next to a tall mango tree. The Parents sat at the bench and they had their baby beside them in a baby seat. What seemed to be an array of finger foods and the bag from whence it came from? I caught myself watching as if I could relate to them on that level - the level of them enjoying the evening at the park. My attention was taken back to my book and in that moment I paused. I paused at the shocking revelation, one of contrast. Bill, in his book, had given an account of the world from the rooms of his home and I am shaping my view of home from the outside world. In retrospect, I was lucky to be where I was, experiencing all these marvels.
It would seem to any passerby that I came to the park to observe rather than read the book I held open on the fifteenth chapter - The Bedroom. Though a lovely evening, it proved not suited for reading as the park was vibrant and every other passerby disturbed me with a sound of some sort. At that moment, it was a little boy who might have been no more than three, riding his little red bike with bells as loud as that of a referee's whistle. He was fairly new to riding and I say this with confidence - the training wheels on the rear gave him away. He had matching head gear, knee pads, elbow pads and the confidence of two grown men. He