A Walk.

I miss walking.

So this evening in Franklin, Tennessee, I took a walk.

Step 1: Find somewhere to walk. I get a recommendation from my friend Lindsay Cade. She suggests a trail by a lake reserve that is fighting for its life from new housing developments.

Step 2: Conquer the trail off Otter Creek Road.

I set out in my jeans and sandals, not intending for this to be an intense walk. I'm off, with all the intense walkers and runners passing me by. I don't care much.

I crunch through the leaves and dirt on a small trail, getting junk in my sandals. I keep looking down, partly out of real interest as to what I might find, partly to shake the rocks out of my shoes, and partly to hide tears coming out of my almost depleted tear ducts.

I about-face when I look up to see light through the trees reflecting off water. Anytime a spec of something promising shows itself, I will get myself to a good location to watch, post-haste.

A cute little boy and his dad pass me as I speed walk toward the paved road that curves around the lake in hopes of a good view of God's handprints.

Deer are to my left grazing in a sea of green stuff, in what I can only assume is peet. I ignore the couples walking around and the kids on their bikes, and I listen to the frogs and the fish sploshing out of water. I hear bug-music and smell sweet Tennessee air and I stop: God is here.

The Creator of the Universe brought me out here and is with me, showing me His creation. I'm doing what one of my favorite Southern Literature professors told me to do for years: I am breathing in my surroundings. Calmly sitting and observing where I come from.

The colors continue to bounce off the waters. Clouds change form and a plane flies through them, creating the illusion that the world above might actually exist within the water itself. The bugs and the fish blow bubbles on the water, making it look like millions of rain droplets that are being sent down from the heavens.

My gaze shifts and I see a spider on its web. My eyes adjust to its smallness. Once adjusted, I notice more spiders scurrying around and they suddenly become larger than my surroundings as I stare them down, watching them craft their silk. I finally begin to focus on the finite movement of hurried legs spinning the web.

I'm in a trance when Spanish floods my ears. A family is walking by me, and they are taking pictures. They are from some Latin American country (if they are taking pictures of everything under-the-sun then God knows they could very well be Peruvian), but I don't ask details. I only offer to take a picture of the whole family. I so want to speak to them but I hold back.

Darkness is coming and I have to turn away from the color fading into night. As much as I want to hang around to see the finishing touches, I don't want to get locked into the park.

I drive down the lane the same way I drove in: The windows down and the music off. I want to hear anything else the would has to offer me. I pass the gigantic houses, making me think the park was a dream.

I see lightning bugs float around in their bubbles of light.

The red-to-green flicker ahead of me in the distance signals my entrance into the man-made construction of time and the real world once again.