Stepping into Pokrovskoye-Streshnevo park, across the street from our apartment in Moscow, reminds me of a scene from the movie, Field of Dreams, where the baseball players vanish seconds after entering an Iowa cornfield. As I step from asphalt to earth, my foot touches either a Welcome Mat of squishy mud, grassy sod, feathery snow, or fly-away dust, depending on the season. And it's at that moment of contact, the Magic begins.
The park, like the cornfield, is not what it seems. From the height of our 10th floor apartment, the treetops give no clues as to what they are hiding. With the arrival of spring, the darker pines mix with every delicious shade of green you could think of – lime sherbet, honeydew melon, Granny Smith apple - to shelter the secrets underneath. As I walk further inside, the noise of cars, machinery, sirens, and horns fade as the trees close in around me and absorb the frenzy of life left behind. Paths lay before me, a virtual city of nature hidden from view, inviting me in.
The morning is cool with a hint of sweet flowers growing nearby. I choose the path straight ahead and quickly find that I am not alone. A slender man, with slightly humped shoulders, appears up ahead, walking with his head down and hands clasped behind his back. With his long, scraggly, graying beard, he resembles Tolstoy or Solzhenitsyn, deeply contemplating the meaning of life or the beginning of his next chapter. Not wanting to disturb his thoughts, I pass quietly to the right, following the curve towards a grassy field in the distance. Through the greening branches, I notice movement, arms and legs slowly appearing and disappearing like some kind of disembodied dance. Coming closer, I recognize the unison of motions, Tai chi, being practiced by a dozen seniors, men and women. As they disperse, one woman wanders to a tree on the fringes of the field, stretches her arms as far as they will reach around its trunk, and stands with her cheek caressing its bark, as if it were her dearest friend.
Quacks lure me further down the road to the intersection of five footpaths, trailing out of the woods to converge at a pair of lakes in the center of the park. Mist hovers over the water, becoming transparent enough in spots to see the outlines of fishermen, who have already set up stools and stretched out poles, waiting patiently for fish to swim by for breakfast. Two bathers in assorted pieces of clothing (or not), swim out a few strokes, tread water, then swim back to sun and stretch. Ducks glide as if they’re meditating, until they spy a tasty treat below and dive head down, tail up, to fetch it.
Finding a stump, I sit waiting for the sun to break through the scattered clouds. Children’s voices from the nearby playground and cries from a baby being strolled in its pram, add to birds’ song and squirrels’ chatter. Two men pass by lugging gallon-sized plastic jugs filled with glistening water from natural springs, tucked quietly in a corner of the forest.
The sun hits me full in the face and I close my eyes as the warmth soaks in. At this moment in time, I know that I have been given exactly what I need, as have my companions in the park. And therein lies the Magic that only Nature can provide, as we cross the threshold into Her world.
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