Hoping to clear the torpor of my mind and spirit, I was walking in Crum Woods one sunny spring afternoon. I had remembered a medical claim that walking improves your health and longevity. But closer to home, I did not find the hurried pace of other walkers’ jostling on narrow sidewalks conducive to peace of mind and thought.

Unexpected events turned my walk into an existential bonanza. Entering the woods, I seemed to step into another world—like Alice through the looking glass—or like Adam in an Eden without any cares. Adam must have listened to the whisper of leaves, the rippling brook, the chatter and arias of birds. He must have enjoyed the bright red plumage and full-throated song of the male cardinal or the gently fluttering hues and polka dots of butterflies. Didn’t Adam have to climb over large tree roots and rocks in Eden—hills that required tricky maneuvers of balance and coordination that challenged his mind and body? Didn’t he find caterpillars, insects, wildflowers, patches of daffodils, berry bushes and mosses, scurrying squirrels, and chipmunks?

God had said it was “good.” Adam called it “Paradise.”

I heard a bird, perched on a small bush several paces away, singing with abandon. I sat motionless on a boulder, listening with fascination. Who was the bird singing to? No others were in sight—no near or distant replies. Oblivious to its surroundings, with no expectant looking around or attentive cocking of its head, the bird sang broken dyads and triads, repeating these in quick succession. I tested my weakly developed solfège in a soft whistle; I could find the intervals but not the glorious timbre and fullness of its notes.

Then, I remembered that birds have a double larynx—two sets of vocal cords. Unlike any orchestral wind instrument, birds can produce two simultaneous notes, something that string musicians call a “double stop.” My singing friend changed intervals, phrases, and emphasis apparently at whim; the mood of its song also varied from tentative and inquiring to declarative and sometimes imperative. Interspersed was staccato chattering—a “recitative”—and low-pitched, soft, mechanical chirps, which I thought were either warning sounds or reassurances for little chicks. But it was too early for chicks. No danger seemed to warrant a warning; no other living thing was paying attention to the song but me. This winged minstrel was running through its repertoire, exercising its voice, developing virtuosity, composing songs, singing paeans for sheer personal joy—without a care, feeling good to be alive; reveling in singing as much as it might in soaring. As I walked on, the lovely musical theme of calm and thanksgiving after the storm from Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony ran through my mind, and I barely caught myself from audibly saying “thank you” to this joyous little friend.

Following gravity about 50 feet down a slope through branches, rock outcroppings, and small rain gullies, I arrived at the meadow and a path beside Crum Creek. As I neared a moderate-sized pool about 2 feet deep, I heard frantic thrashing and splashing. In the middle of the pool was a large dog—probably a golden retriever. It seemed to be struggling—paddling with its hind legs and flagellating its tail. Rising up in the water, it also thrashed with its forepaws.

No owner was in sight.

Then, to my surprise, the dog turned and swam ashore; bounded up onto the bank about 20 feet from me; and, with a series of tremendous shakings, cast off sheets of water. It had a fawn-colored head, friendly eyes, a well-formed body, droopy ears, and a dripping matted coat. It sniffed the ground and air and then looked straight at me. I wanted to make friends. So without moving, I alternately called, whispered, yipped, whistled, and commanded—all tactics that worked with my own two dogs—but to no avail. Instead, it rolled in the soft muddy bank, rubbed its back with undulating contortions; got up; and chased its tail in a tight circle. It looked at me again for an instant, then raced back into the pool.

I watched for about 5 minutes as the dog repeated this ritual several times. It was not hunting, fishing, chasing, or playing with another dog. It was not obeying its master. It seemed to be swimming and rolling in the mud for sheer personal joy!

As I walked away from the creek, I saw two students passing by, holding hands and laughing. We struck up a conversation. I asked about the dog’s master, home, and unusual behavior. They reported that the dog came to that pool in the creek almost every afternoon—from which I inferred that they did too—each in pursuit of the joys of nature. With a friendly wave, we went our separate ways.

I mused that birds, mammals, and humans do many similar things. Birds and mammals sing and vocalize in their own peculiar ways—bark, chirp, cheep, screech, hawk, grunt, and whistle. They swim, dive, fly, soar, dig, race, chase, wrestle, climb trees, play hide-and-seek; build nests, dens, burrows, and even abodes complete with dam and moat. Humans can do everything they do with greater versatility, although sometimes not quite as well, and often requiring special equipment.

For the first time, it occurred to me that birds and mammals might exercise their individual skills not just for survival—but for sheer joy.

Humpback whales, too, might sing their low-pitched mournful songs not just to communicate with others at great distance but simply to please themselves. All of us, seeking the simple joy of using muscles, developing coordination, exercising skills, or inventing new songs, new ideas, new anythings. But mostly being “up and doing—unchained, unworried, unharried, free to choose, exuberant, at one with nature and oneself.

I had never identified joy in quite this way before. It seemed a new thought, a good recipe!

Beginning my walk had required an act of will. I had felt physically tired and mentally dull. After nearly an hour of walking, climbing, sliding, and tripping along narrow paths, I was now walking faster, feeling invigorated and mentally rejuvenated.

Now it was time to return home. In the distance, I heard the soft pure tones of a flute. Nearer to the source, I saw a young man with long blond hair and full beard sitting on the stone wall beside the stage of the College’s amphitheater. I rested for a few minutes out of sight and enjoyed a solo flute concert. But it was his succession of moods that intrigued me. At any given moment, the theme he selected might be flighty and tripping, slow and melancholy, lilting and romantic—and occasionally loud and strident. Like the ancient psalmists, the shepherd in Tristan and Isolde, and the Neanderthal inventor of the first willow whistle with side holes—he was giving expression to some corner of the human heart. Away from the hubbub of college life, he seemed as at peace as a lone young man can be. I walked up to the young musician, said a few friendly and appreciative words, and went on with a happy little hum under my breath, like Pooh.

Soon, I passed back through the looking glass and was startled by revving engines, perforated mufflers, and thumping car stereos. I hurried back home, back to my Eve.

A pastor, or perhaps a philosopher, once said: “Since the fall of Adam and Eve and the banishment from Eden, mankind has had to suffer and work. But we are even now building our own Eden.” But I thought to myself: Man can build a better mousetrap, automobile, or computer. We can build tall steel and glass office buildings; resort hotels; garish gambling casinos; and, yes, magnificent cathedrals.

But build another Eden?

God did not destroy Eden or even lock the gate. The primeval forest is still there (at least for a while longer) and so is primeval joy! How fortunate we are to have an Eden so accessible to this tree of knowledge.

And, by the way, the doctors are right: My health is alreadybetter!
Herbert Locksley is a retired neurosurgeon who lives in Wallingford, Pa.