The first treasure I happened upon was the group of bicyclists that had stopped to snack on the wild grapes that were growing alongside the bike path. As I stopped to chat, the tallest member of the group, the only one who could reach the high vines, generously handed me a small, perfectly shaped cluster of the dark purple fruit; another day and they'd be over-ripe, but today they were as sweet as sugar. Pleasantries were exchanged - they were from Chicago; city folk who were delighted to be on the island for the first time and partaking of nature's bounty, as well as being somewhat intrigued by having met an authentic native - after which I set out once again on my merry way.
Within another five minutes I noticed a narrow, almost-hidden path that led into the woods. I was curious because in all my years of bicycling this route - almost every day in the summer; or driving the nearby road - almost every day in the winter - I never saw this path. I thought at first that it might have been an impromptu "rest station," and that it would end abruptly in a smelly pile of human waste, but was instead intrigued to find a small bridge over a stream (where we used to catch frogs, as kids, I realized), that led to a path that meandered in twists and turns; up hill and down, through the sunny woods. It was a pathway that was neither heavily trampled; nor, apparently, was it a deep, dark secret, as the trail was well-defined, and some of the trees bore a white paint marker.
I couldn't help but be amazed by this find - not because it was one of the Seven Wonders of the World - but because it was something that had been there for quite some time, in a neighborhood I thought I knew fairly well. But until yesterday, I never saw it; it was hidden from my sight.
Which makes me wonder: how much more am I missing because of my break-neck pace through this life?
September light.
