A Stonewall Path to Joy

I rolled into town on the hottest day of the year so far. The car read 106°F. It’s June. That couldn’t be right. The sun was making its slow descent toward the finish line, so we met up with the dogs, letting them run ahead while we trailed behind, eating popsicles, taking in the beauty of a bubbly creek. As soon as the sun dipped behind the rolling green mountains, the heat began to lift. Exhale.

Bovina is a small but mighty rural township in Delaware County, nestled gently into the peacefully picturesque Catskill Mountains. A serene place of historic charm and natural inspiration. Or perhaps it’s natural charm and historic inspiration. Likely both. A place your eyes take in as if you’re living inside a freshly painted watercolor. Dreamy.

I was staying above Brushland Eating House, in the front apartment with a balcony overlooking the quiet hum of County Highway 6. “Main Street,” if you’re in the know, because really, that’s the whole town. A drive-through you might miss if you blink. One stretch of quaint action, fully equipped with a firehouse, courthouse, post office, schoolhouse, church, dairy farm, general store, and of course, Brushland Eating House.

At 7:45 p.m., a lawn mower buzzed to life. I thought how wise it was to delegate action to the cooler hours. It was still bright out, and 91°F.

I kept thinking: I’m just happy to be here.

I couldn’t wait to paint the town and I mean that in the way I believe the phrase was originally intended. I was elated to give my best attempt to capture this delightfully nourishing place, humbly, with a bit of tinted water and paper.

After a slow morning basking in the peaceful space beneath the rafters, I collected my thoughts and headed to the top of the hill behind Brushland. The highest, closest, walkable path I could see.

The sun was nearly overhead. I regretted forgetting the citronella balm. That had been the last thought I had as I walked away from Brushland, a mistake I won’t make twice. A good reminder to listen to that small voice inside your mind, the one that speaks only once. The one that flashes an image of citronella balm as you step out the door. That is the voice to trust. That is intuition. Not to be confused with the loud voices that ruminate. Those are not to be trusted.

Someone was already weaving a mower at the bottom of the field. I glanced up to see the tall grass standing proud, wildflowers poking their heads through cheerful patches of yellow.

I imagined spreading a blanket at the top of the hill to paint the landscape. What I hadn’t accounted for was just how rich, dense and saturated the soil was. Aka Muddy! Though, I was impressed how the grass and wildflowers flourished so abundantly. So much so that their showy height, became a surprising hindrance to the view I had envisioned for painting. I scanned the horizon for higher ground.

Tucked beneath a pair of oak and maple trees stood a small stone wall, its flat slabs warmed by the sun. It looked like the perfect seat. I made my way over, grateful to have found a place that invited both stillness and perspective, as I was striving to embody that finely balanced state of being, present in the moment yet compelled to somehow capture it to relive and share. I felt the breeze throug the trees kiss my cheek, and a quiet reminder: observe and be first. Breathe.

As I took in the 360 degrees surroundings my stone perch, something breathtaking unfolded some 30 steps behind me.

A fallen tree, long departed from the canopy, now lay across the forest floor on its second mission of life. Decomposing gently, it had become a ground worker, quietly nourishing the earth. Its absence in the canopy had created space for light to pour through, allowing what felt like thousands of ferns to flourish joyfully.

A fractal wonder, waving beautifully in the breeze, reminding me to pause as I unfurl with gratitude.

While I never ended up painting that moment, I did recieve it.

From the ferns on the forrest floor, from me to you, I hope you find the moments of your day to pause and unfurl your spine with gratitude for the journy, the path ahead and the landscape, the vista and the quiet reminders to breathe. Knowing, There is life beyond the canpoy.

With Love,

Abi Rose