On Fridays, we would go to the creek, a ribbon of water nestled behind a veil of trees alongside the bike trail. It was next to the elementary school playground that bordered the main road. A portion of the creek’s waters whispered beneath the bridge. Some days, we’d arrive on our bikes— my purple one, her teal and pink one (that she was getting too big for), and his black one. Other days, we’d opt for a stroll to the creek, leaving our bikes to rest, their tires slowly exhaling a week of use. Along the way, we’d nod to the familiar parade of joggers, cyclists, and couples hand-in-hand. Lots of “how are ya”s that weren’t meant to be answered, and lots of courtesy “good afternoon”s. Same old, same old.
The creek welcomed us with open arms and tiny hitchhikers— pale insects that clung to our clothes and shoes. We would trudge down the bank, our feet finding familiar footholds, to crouch at the water’s edge. There, we’d peer into a universe of tadpoles and minnows. Their nascent lives were a reminder of our own beginnings, and what lay ahead of us. The serene water reflected countless little spheres of life that thrived around us. Each of us existed in our own world, yet bound by the quietude of nature that felt both empty and profoundly fulfilling. Rarely did we break this tranquility with words. There existed only love and simple joys.
Years before the creek, our pilgrimages led to the cul-de-sac across ours, particularly the woods behind it. Somewhere among those towering trees lived the owls we heard from our bedrooms at night, their hoots a lullaby to our childhood dreams.
The bike ride there was brief, a tantalizing taste of freedom. We’d pedal furiously, only to reach our destination in mere minutes. Undeterred, we'd often make multiple trips back and forth. We relished the wind coming toward us and the satisfying crunch of gravel beneath our four tires (the embarrassing training wheels).
We didn’t know the neighbors along that road too well. They remained enigmas, only known through fleeting glimpses. There was that man who woke up early to watch football on his wide-screen TV, a mother with the enormous blond “puppy” that looked more bear than dog, and one young guy whose striped Mustang acted a secondary wake-up call with its roaring engine.
We’d pause at the edge of the trees, peering into the shadowy depths, looking up at the cathedral of green where sunlight filtered through. This sylvan endpoint didn’t have any particular scenery, no commanding bodies of waters. Just a glimpse of woods. Its beauty rested in its mystery— we didn’t know much of what lay behind those trees, and never would.
Years after the creek was the lake. It was the furthest from our house of all endpoints. We never biked to the lake. Too many turns and too many neighbors. My sister once tried hoverboarding there, though, and it turned out to be a short-lived expedition. The lake was the most beautiful of all; its deep blue waters shimmered in the sun. The grasses and reeds at its banks rustled in the breeze. We learned not to mind the bugs that danced around us.
We would take pictures of the lake every time, even though it was the same old lake. The familiar can appear so fresh. There was always a new angle to take a picture from, new things to be seen. The lake didn’t change, but the clouds and light that rested upon it were ever-shifting. Absorbed in this beauty, the intensity of the Texas sun vanished along with our hunger and complaints, like morning mist.
From certain vantages, you could see the imposing white hospital. From others, rows of cookie-cutter houses stretched into the distance. What a contrast to the lake’s sparkling splendor.
Our explorations often led us along a thin fence to a less-trodden path (save the families of bunnies). The forest here was more untamed and mysterious. There was no second where you would not hear the chirping insects and croaking frogs. Once, a snake emerged from the trees and slithered across our path. In barely a second, our dad’s fatal snake bite stories he read on the news made us into sprinters.
On another day, we decided to go further down the path than usual. We stumbled upon an arboreal village of birdhouses. They perched in the branches like whimsical fruits— a cowboy Jesus, a whimsical capitol building, a gift wrapped in blue, a rocket. There were two trees full of them.
Homeward bound, we would pass the old dog lounging by his pool. Spoiled old dog. We’d bark at him. He was never fooled.
When we’d get home, we'd rush to open the freezer. First enjoying the cool air, then, grabbing our prizes— invariably the overlooked red and purple popsicles. Boring, but for sweaty and tired bodies, they were as sweet as manna. Dinner that followed was always good, whether it was creamy alfredo or the usual pounded yam and stew. We felt content. We felt the precious pulse of life itself and the glow of the earth. Sun, water, clouds. It was in our eyes.
It was in nature where we put aside our bickering. Because there, we realized, we were all the same. We were reflections of each other and the lake was our mirror, the bugs and bunnies our companions, the sun our heart. It was the journey to our cherished places in nature where we saw ourselves, truly. Unveiled, under only the light of the sun and the coolness of the trees. Nature was for us, and us.
Love this - brought me there, and then brought me back to days with my sister on our bikes pedalling endlessly in search of adventure (and ultimately, the freezer treats).