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along the hudson river

In Cold Spring only a handful of people walk around at any given time. It’s a quiet town, and those living there seem to like it that way. There are a few good restaurants, a few shops and some antique stores. There’s a lovely inn by the river, and a new park, and biking and hiking paths. It reminds me of a movie set. www.coldspringliving.com/lodging.htm

Right next door to Cold Spring is Beacon. Beacon has a good mix of ethnic groups, many artists, two cafes (good coffee), speciality shops, galleries, a nice choice of eating establishments, and there’s DIA. Tourists come on the Hudson Line from Grand Central and meander over to DIA, and after DIA, board the shuttle bus (on weekends) to Main Street for eating and shopping. Some stores close on monday, tuesday and wednesday. And there’s no shuttle bus on the weekdays, but it’s an easy walk to DIA and to Main Street. www.mta.info/mnr www.diabeacon.org www.grandcentralterminal.com

If you stay long enough you tend to hear over and over that the Hudson River towns are “in the process of changing.” Change doesn’t occur quickly or easily. Newcomers arrive with their ideas and enthusiasm, and, at times, change happens. Sometimes it doesn’t and places close. Either way it seems not to matter to those who live here. They appreciate the slow pace and enjoy the way of life the towns offer. I heard that after 9/ll many people moved from Manhattan to the Hudson River towns and the Catskills. Manhattan though is ever on the move, growing differently year after year as people from all over the world decide to make “the city” their home. It’s Manhattan’s nature to be always changing while remaining vibrant. And it seems to be Beacon’s nature to just be. www.escapemaker.com/ny/beacon/beacon.html

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one to be savored

Have you been to a beautiful quiet place lately for at least two weeks without the usual kind of interruptions and entertainment? It’s soul satisfying. A place surrounded by trees, with a deer or four, wild turkey, chipmunks and birds passing by, with the sky so dark at night and stars brightly shining, and no one close enough to drop by. You’re all alone to decide how the course of the day will go. You’ve read J. Krishnamurti’s or E. Tolle’s writings, or another that teaches how to listen and observe. It’s serene. It’s enjoyable. There’s no television, radio, or ways to catch-up on the news. The news of the world is according to how it’s presented in each country. Things are not always as they seem. This being the case, we’re not exactly all on the same page. Let it go. www.jkrishnamurti.org www.eckharttolle.com

Before TV, video games, and all the things that manage to keep people in one spot for hours, life was lived outside more, and people didn’t need the medication that seems to go with today’s lifestyle. Obesity wasn’t an issue, and I doubt anyone commented on someone’s breast size, nose size or thigh size in those days. Certain things were as they were. Life was not as complicated. There were thousands of items not known at that time that are in use now, and people were fine without them. As was the environment. Tomorrow I leave. They’ll be no more mention of life in the country – at least for a while. But perhaps for you, a vacation is around the corner, and if there’s a choice to be alone, you need to know that it’s not lonely. It’s truly a delicious feeling; one to be savored.

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the storyteller

Still she thinks of herself as a poor black girl living in the south before blacks and whites mingled. I say this because her past is always with her as those times seem to be more real than present day life. Since I’ve known her it’s been that way. Some things run real deep. She’s a good storyteller, and when I look at her I can vividly imagine that little girl back then in Arkansas. The stories she tells of that time will make you laugh, though some will bring a sense of acute sadness. My childhood was in New England and those stories never reached me.

I like her style of cooking. I think it’s changed just a little from her mother’s way. She makes corn bread every week, eats the greens of the south (gave up frying, but makes every attempt to recapture that taste by vigorous sauteeing). Her mother once took her and three of her siblings on a trip north to visit family, and she talks about seeing, for the first time in her young life, whites and blacks together. You feel in the telling of this that every fiber of her body relives the shock.

She didn’t marry a black man and didn’t stay in the south. She owns a nice three-bedroom apartment in Manhattan, has a big loving heart and, has what could be called, a good life. The value of money that was instilled then holds true now. Money or no money, she’s solidly frugal. I feel that keeping those stories alive is important because many people still haven’t grasped the enormity of what happened if you were black and living in the deep south at that time. From listening to her stories, a new understanding was very gently pounded into my head during my stay with her this year. Any new insight has the potential to shed new light on other areas of life. I thank her for that and for the loving person she’s become in spite of it all.