Taking a walk to remember
The weather station on the wall said “49 degrees and clear,” and so did Alexa.
Skeptically, she pulled back the maroon, darkening curtains covering the large living room picture window to see what the weather actually was. For whatever reason, she always felt more secure about what she’d face on her morning walk if she could really see the conditions outside.
“Looks acceptable,” she thought to herself, “clear and snappish, a bit cold, but OK.”
Somewhere, in one of the many fitness classes she had taken before COVID-19, she heard that once you stop moving, you won’t start again. Whether that was true was unknown to her, but she was unwilling to risk it; there were hopefully still a lot of good years left in the old girl. She took pride in being active, especially for someone of “her age.” No, kickboxing wasn’t a thing anymore, and jogging was only a memory; however, as long as she was blessed to have two good legs, warm clothing and comfortable shoes, she had committed to walk each morning; sometimes with friends, most times she’d listen to music — or lately, be alone with her inner voice.
Opening the front door, she stepped into the biting crispness and morning dampness — just for a moment — so she could confirm what she would wear. She hated being cold; it took away the joy of movement, instead, turning it into an endurance test which she tried to rush through. “Gloves? Really? It’s cold enough already that I need to wear gloves?”
Summer had fallen off a cliff. Last week, the order of the day required a light breezy get-up and a baseball cap. Almost overnight, she was wearing sweats, leggings, long sleeves covered in a bright red fleece pullover, wool cap —and now gloves. Of course, the seasons turned each year but she never seemed to completely accept how quickly that occurred.
She covered her graying hair with the wool cap her daughter had knitted, pulled the gloves up onto her hands and began stretching her quads. Breathing into the tension until the muscles let go of their crankiness, she then, with hands-on-hips, twisted left and right loosening up her sides. It all hurt a little — in a good way— but at this age, she needed to make sure she was limber.
Standing on the sidewalk, before deciding which of her regular routes she wanted to take that day, she inhaled deeply the cold air. “It’s not yet winter, but it’s getting close,” she thought as the mist she exhaled evaporated into the morning chill.
Glancing east down the street, using her hand to shield her eyes from the glaring sun, she saw that the city was still doing road work. They tore up — and were modifying — the curbs to make the sidewalks safer and more accessible for pedestrians. “It’ll be nice when they finish,” she said to no one. “Why they couldn’t do one side of the street at a time, however, is a mystery to me.” You took your life in your hands walking through the construction, dodging traffic, heavy machinery, and oh yeah, the holes in the road. Realizing there was nothing she could do about it, she faced west.
On a path of re-discovering her spirituality, she was endeavoring to stay present and recently began “walking meditations,” an attempt to be wholly aware of what she was seeing and feeling — in the moment — while she moved. It added serenity and improved her mood, even as a new routine added to her morning. While, she would mentally observe how her body felt with each footfall, discerning the sounds and sights around her, mindful of her attentions, and indulging in each moment as it painted a full image in her awareness. She liked the “meditation thing” — when she took time to do it — and had lately begun focusing on her surroundings before beginning.
The air was clear with soft blue, pale skies. A few stray cotton ball clouds drifted through her field of vision and she could make out the sunlight bouncing off the bay several blocks away. At the end of her block, there was a timeworn, ivy-covered church with one steep gable. The property on which it sat was covered with trees; not evergreens like most of the trees around her neighborhood. Rather these were non-cone bearing, a rarity in her area. Leaves; orange, brown, green, red; covered the sidewalk. The faint whisper of a breeze tickling them and making them dance with a lax joyful wispy, wistful, dreamlike, movement.
The street was silent. The sky was unblemished. She slid her sunglasses over her eyes to dim the glare. And then, after absorbing it all, she filled her lungs deeply. As the vapor escaped her nostrils, she started — with purpose — down the cement walkway, elated for this moment, this actual second, this now in which she lived, so delighted she was alive.
“Life is good,” she reminded herself as she walked and let her thoughts paint images in her mind.
Scott “Q” Marcus is the CRP (Chief Recovering Perfectionist) of www. ThisTimeIMeanIt.com. When he’s not leaping buildings in a single bound, he leads nopayment-required zoom inspirational, practical workshops on the first and third Tuesday of each month. Find out more via his mailing list at www. ThisTimeIMeanIt.com/ signup.