I woke up last Sunday feeling resolute. Although we’d had the sort of snowstorm that makes “white christmas” sound like a curse, I knew it was a day for walking.
I have this restless spirit in me, and sometimes I have to walk it out, clock some miles at street level to appease the beast.
Although Lincoln’s a world-class biking town, it’s not as good for walkers. I mean, you can walk anywhere, all that takes is legs. But this is not a strollable town; you can’t reach everything you need on foot in most neighborhoods.
Most people drive everywhere; even to the places where they walk their dogs. This is not unique to Lincoln, we’ve exurbed ourselves into people who mostly sit—behind the wheel, at our computers, in front of the TV; into people whose longest hikes are through big box stores, searching for new ways to be passive, to pacify our relentless hungers.
So it seemed right, last Sunday, to put on my long johns and snowboots and take to the streets for a five-mile trek across town. This is the first real break I’ve had from work since I started nearly a year ago. And it’s the end of a hard year, and a devastating decade.
I figured a walk would give me some clear space in which to prepare for the year ahead. Blow out the pipes, you know? Shake off the clench of the decade, armor myself against the aughts. Ready myself for better times.
Every walk has its beginning, when you’re full of purpose and drive.
But a walk is mostly middle, where the real work of the journey happens: letting your feet decide which route feels right, pausing to stretch that sore hip flexor, snapping a shot of something you just now noticed, even though you’ve driven past a thousand times.
And every walk has its destination, whether its back where you started, someplace you meant to go, or a place you discover in the process of walking. In this case, I knew I’d end up with this one in my arms; incentive to keep moving forward.
When you’re out on a winter day, walking has more obstacles. There’s the cold that sneaks in under mufflers, the unshoveled sidewalks and the barely scalable drifts, the unseen ice waiting to take you down.
Just like January, new-fallen snow feels so promising. It’s all that white, so clean, covering up all the dead grass and the worn spots. But white never lasts; it goes to grey, to brown, the hopeful crunch of fresh snow turning to muck and slush on us.
Of course, no matter how many miles I mean to cover, there are the inevitable pee breaks. Blame it on my lilliputian bladder and the brobdinagian fibroid that sits adjacent.
Lady-aging sucks. It’s not just the visible shit, although that’s hard enough. It’s your insides going to grey, to brown, turning to muck and slush on you.
And then there’s the loneliness. I finally figured out why people get married, have kids: so you’re not the only one disturbing the air in your house, not the only one in bed at night, not the only one who sees the possibilities in new-fallen snow.
My psychic friend assures me that next year will be better; it’s in the cards, in the numbers, she says. And, although I don’t roll the bones or even read my horoscope, I have clutched onto that thought like a frightened child to her father’s neck.
But 2010 is finally here. And I don’t want to clutch onto anything anymore. So I have faith that this year will be better. It has to be better, for all of us, for everyone I love and everyone I know. We’ll heal ourselves, heal each other. And we’ll find what we need, find each other.
Although I like a clean slate, I’m not really a resolution person. I can never seem to get it up for the big moments, the shared markers. But this year I need to be less alone.
I need to really inhabit my home, wherever it ends up being.
I need to leave room for the sun to come out, even on days where the grey seems leaden and oppressive.
I need to believe in the blue sky, no matter where I’m walking, or how much muck and slush I’m walking through.
Happy new year, and thanks for stopping by. Whoever you are, wherever you are, you are part of my tribe, my sangha. Thanks for making me feel less alone.
