A Walk Across Phelps Field

The sun has dropped below the tree line and the light is reaching my favorite time of day: when the world seems to be veiled in a light, blushing pink, a pink that is so magical it seems it should be shimmering with glitter. I am carrying Mendelssohn and Chopin in my black shoulder bag—the one with the English flag on it—and am preparing myself to find inspiration in the silence of this twilight evening to play Nocturne 1 Opus 9 in B flat.

The road is silent, save for a few lazy cars whose tires roll over the asphalt with a content sound and whose headlights seem to shine like beacons. On one side of this road, there are a few royal elms that line a vista, and on the other side, a group of cherry trees, newly green after shedding their petals, romantically dangle their branches. For the first time in a long time, breathing the cool night air in through my nose and out through my mouth, I discover a sense of calm and tranquility, a oneness with nature. Moving down the hillside, past the bench and to the baseball diamond, I observe scuff marks in the dirt. I can see where someone dashed to second base, digging their shoes into the earth before sprinting off and leaving patterns in the dirt. Past the baseball diamond, I head toward the building. Even from the middle of the field, 100 yards away, I can hear the echoes from someone practicing piano on the first floor. Adding to this melody, I faintly hear birds singing in the trees to my right, saying goodnight and goodbye to the last drops of light before the moon and stars peep through the dark sky. I turn to look back at the field I just crossed, the baseball diamond, the cherry trees, the road and the cars passing; this is one of my favorite moments of the day, not just because of the time of day, but because that field and those trees seem more real to me than many other things. The silence and the infrequent, yet lulling sound of cars driving peacefully back home are meditative, and somehow, all my senses and perceptions come alive. I turn and walk into the brick building, ready to play some Mendelssohn.

--Marion