Echoes of a Confident Heart

This was written about a non existant park in Calgary. I just remember walking out to the west end of the city and being blown away by view of the Rockies, majestic and cold in the distance. This was written to a person in Calgary and a literary dream and a wish for one of our walks and talks in an unreal but all too possible setting

I love walking with you in the old park out by the edge of the city. It used to be a part of a small country town, but now, it is indistinguishable from the rest of the urban sprawl which has grown out to enclose it like a flood.

The benches are still there however and the slight lean of the land still exposes the breathtaking view of a vast horizon filled with blue grey mountains seemingly planted to stop the mad rush of the prairies. Someone had planted trees here, apple and pear, maples and poplar, and they have grown over the many years since that time to become a small forest in a land ruled by grass.

You can still see the odd cowboy during the times of the year not given over to the stampede, but he is more likely to have a jeep or pickup than a horse, more likely to be older rather than younger, more likely to be affable than loner. The psyche of the city is still retained, and every bus boy fancies himself a cowboy or an oilman. The feel of the frontier, the gold rush, the gusher just around the corner remains in the peripheral vision of accountant and mechanic alike. “The deal” is somewhere to be had around here if we could just recognize it, and grab it, and, most importantly hang on.

But here, with you, the city cannot seep in. It is time for quiet. It is a place where the world slows to a stop. It is a place to admire the beauty of the Rockies and be astonished by their size, especially when you consider that they are a hundred miles away.

Last night we were 100 miles from the water, tonight it is 100 miles from the heights. Last night we were high up looking down, tonight on the ground looking up.. It all seems to come together here in this park. The forest and the plain, the mountain and the water, the quiet in the middle of noise, the peace in the midst of striving, the stillness in the center of a demand for forward motion.

These are the nights when I love this park the most. I am here with you and the feel of your hand in mine as we walk into the trees takes the day off my back. The calm of the bench and the beauty of the picture painted in front of us is accented by the feel of your head on my chest and my arm around your shoulder. I have time to think, to paint a picture in my imagination and colour it with words, to feel my dreams playing among the apple trees like butterflies in the summer. I can reach out and hold the tranquility, breathe it in like steam from the kettle. I can allow my soul to stop running and start living..

There are other souls in the park here with us, who smile as they walk by, or nod heads as if to apologize for disturbing the peace. They are here for the same reason we are, and they add to the feeling of the park. We are a painting of a feeling done in deep greens and steel greys, shadows and sunlight yellow dappled in the short grass.

I love walking with you in the old park out by the edge of the city.

This entry was posted on Monday, April 12th, 2010 at 12:29 pm and is filed under Urban Settings. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.