Susan Palmer's Exquisite Now

The narrow alleys I’ve encountered in trips to France and Italy linger in memory, more perhaps than the cathedrals and art galleries and sweeping views. In the particular case of Cassis France, that’s saying something, given the massive capes that rise straight from the sea to surround the little harbor town — a place best visited in the off-est of seasons. The alleys don’t have a “wow” factor. It’s more of an “oh, my” thing, a “nestling in my heart” thing.

Those European alleys may have some longevity going on, hundreds upon hundreds of years of inviting people in. But the alleys in my little neighborhood in Eugene, the most beautiful among them, just a few steps from my door, could teach a thing or two about the art of beckoning.

I snapped the picture above on my way to our little neighborhood grocer last week. Something always blooms, and the senses engage: the sound of gravel crunching under my shoes, the aroma, just now, of lilacs. Once in January, a lone rose in a sunny spot had pushed its way through an old fence, coral-orange and almost fully open. Despite all.

A footpath. The alley says, “Come walk this way.” It’s human-sized and human-paced. The traffic noise from other streets fades. You are here. You are now.