SOOTHED BY NATURE

When I came to Brazil in August of 1977, the hectic traffic and my lack of a working command of Portuguese stopped me from driving. I had driven in several countries, on the left side in Ireland, and even in the chaos of New York City, but I had never seen traffic like Rio de Janeiro’s. At the time Oswaldo had persistent low blood pressure and we used to joke that he only needed to drive down to the end of the congested and honk-filled Avenida Copacabana to immediately resolve the problem. So, in 1978, when people abandoned their cars to throw themselves into the Carnival festivities, I took out our borrowed WV Variant and drove all over the becalmed city streets, getting my bearings, and regaining my confidence as a driver.

 

I was reminded of this today, all these years later, when on the very last day of Carnival, I drove myself in scant traffic to go for a walk by myself in the nearby botanical garden. I haven’t driven a car in over a year due to a stupefying combination of two sequentially broken kneecaps and our pandemic isolation, nor, for the same reasons, have I walked much alone.

 

I sauntered along in the scalding February heat, sun glinting thought the lush vegetation, and thought about how the pandemic has sharpened my observation of my immediate surroundings. Trees in full bloom stand out in a way they didn’t before, as do nature’s sounds, like the dry clicking of tall bamboos mixed with the splashing of a small waterfall, which made me stop today and take note. 

 

I had started the day with dreadful news from the Ukraine and a headline that in February Covid had claimed 22.078 Brazilian lives. I was looking for affirmation of something good and lasting in our world – and, as usual, nature offered to help - the plump white jambos (Malabar plums) clustered on a modest tree, the brilliant red of the bastão do emperador (torch ginger), almost hidden in the surrounding foliage, 

and the ever-fascinating abricó-de-macaco (Cannon-ball tree) tumbling down from the tree trunk and spilling waxy petals on the ground. They all moved me with their beauty. Perhaps it’s a question of a formerly busy time that has been freed – a time to stop and a time to observe. 

 

When I settled in my favorite café inside the garden, I got out my notebook and ordered a latte. After a minute, I also ordered some pão de queijo. I felt there should be some celebration of my three small, but personally important, accomplishments: I had driven myself, walked almost 6000 steps alone, and had finally sat down to write something. 

 

Like the French say, “Petit à petit, l’oiseau fait son nid,” (Little by little, the bird builds its nest).