World Weariness and Privilege: The Prairie Path

"The world is too much with us," wrote British Poet William Wordsworth in 1807. "Little we see in Nature that is ours...we are out of tune...it moves us not..."

Not me. I have the prairie path. The prairie path dissipates world weariness. Our property overlooks several hundred acres of forest preserve and within those is a perfect three mile circle. It is partially visible from our house and from afar we watch the steady stream of walkers, cyclists, skiers, horseback riders. In summer, their bobbing heads are barely visible above the splay of reeds in the marsh. Now the reeds are a flattened brown tangle; the bullrushes have exploded and the people on their small journeys are whole again.

The prairie path is wide, more than eight feet. The grass alongside is kept cut, except in spring when the purple and white violets bloom. The surface is fine crushed clay, like kitty litter. When the sun is high, the clay gives the illlusion it is white and the path becomes magical, beckoning, a road in a dreamscape. Normally it's grey. When it's wet, the clay is squishy, when dry, dusty. Every so often the rangers scrape it smooth. In deep snow, it is groomed with tracks for skiers.

I make my way around it everyday, ignoring both heat and cold, with my three dogs. Often I see no-one, even if the sky is a boundless blue, the wind warm. The solitude invokes reveries. I am never all alone.

Nor is there silence. The distant rush of traffic reminds me how close to, yet how removed I am from my suburban space. In summer the incessant chirps of frogs and a loud chorale of birds take over. If I'm lucky I'll see a bluebird but there are always redwing blackbirds in the rushes and swallows dipping and hawks screeching on thermals. Sometimes a heron gives a harsh cry overhead. His path is as straight and purposeful as a jet. Otherwise there are usually several in the marshes and egrets as well, motionless, persevering as they wait for frogs.

The landscape is diverse and expansive, though the sky always imposes. And it's empty. Only at this time of year are rooftops exposed. Right now everything is dull. Autumn flared and died. What's left are textured levels of brown, tarnished gold. The meadows in the foreground are ragged stalks, disordered remnants of the earlier panorama of wildflowers: Black-eyed Susans, pink Milkweed, Queen Anne's Lace, fuschia coneflowers, towering sunflowers. Later, the purple asters co-mingled with the golden rod, which this year was profuse and glaring.

Now the goldenrod is dirty fuzz, the Queen Anne's Lace, stiff curls. Empty pods on the ends of the milkweed look like tiny birds. Beyond, the hillside grasses are biscuit-coloured, scruffy. In the spring and summer they are a sweep of green so vibrant, they seem artificial. In the other direction is the last gleam of lake before freeze-up. The streams flowing into it are full, gurgling even, from all the rain. They may keep a small current in the ice.

Above me and in the distance, the bared forest creates an endless tracery and I can't help but think longingly ahead to when the newborn canopy appears, a chartreuse mist softening the sky and then, in summer, a verdant barricade.

But I musn't wish the days away even though winter on the prairie path can be treacherous, the wind hostile. But there are days when, if I am bundled up and the sun seems kind, the sheen on the reaches of untouched snow, the diamond sparkle of icicles on the bushes, the long blue shadows against the silvery light in the woods convince me that my tingling toes and fingers, my drippy nose, my numb cheeks are a small price to pay for such a glorious vista.

The path can feel as if it's in the middle of nowhere, going nowhere. But it's a paradox. Often, it seems to extend far into somewhere, an unvisited place. I look at it wind and climb, appear and disappear ahead of me and it's as if it's leading to a destination that isn't the end at all but is simply more, simply further. It's a version of "The Yellow Brick Road". I follow it faithfully. It promises something: an uncomplicated promise. The promise of well-being.

There are few privileges in life. Financial security is a privilege. Health is a privilege. A loving, nurturing family is a privilege. So is a home. None of these is a given.

The prairie path is a privilege.