It continues. The sun day feverishly bringing hamper clad picnickers to the pond. They bypass the sanctuary of the temple where God dwells within man built walls, for the temple He built without. Yet some forget this.
It is early. 9.30am. Already cars in lines crawl slowly toward the pay station entrance. I open my window to hear “I’m gong to send in a complaint” spewed across waiting crowds, toward an attendant. The aggressive gait of plaid pants purposefully marching toward the pond. No one seems to notice. Or take notice. I move on through. The car before me, too.
I wonder. What there is to complain about? The sun. Walden. A perfect Sunday morning.
How many mornings has Walden been here waiting, that we cannot wait to come through her gate? Those cars behind me, behind the purple plaid. Are they still waiting? “Lot closed. Reopens at noon.”
The beach waits too, in shadow for the sun to turn.
The once bare trunks now bursting the same life as the car park now bursts, provide shade. We flock, like birds below their branches.
Yet I have come here so many times to bare bitumen. To empty sand under naked limbs. To silence. I have come, just as many others come from parts all over, to visit the place that sits in perfect wait, whether her belly is bursting blue water or white ice freeze, whether her arms embrace with snow or leafy green, as she holds us with today.
Whatever the season, she waits for us to come.
Sometimes we must also learn to wait.