Years ago I walked everywhere. Refused rides home, unless it was 20 below. (Ohio.) Battled through 3 foot snowdrifts in my Fry's, to get downtown. So why is it now so hard to just get out and walk?
Today I put it on my list, layered up really well, against the wind, and went out before lunch, before showering, before doing the laundry. Because I do know that if I wait to walk after all doing all those things, I won't get out--like yesterday.
Max(his name has been changed to protect his innocence), a neighbor's sweet broad-striped tabby, was waiting outside the door. He pranced around, wanting to come in. But from experience I know that my cats will welcome him with claws, hisses and deep-throated growls. I want to pet him, but he is hand shy.
I followed his wet tracks down my steps and started off, not going too fast. In fact, though I did not know it then, I never did pick up any speed. The whole walk, my feet felt like I was wearing Moon boots, but walking on Jupiter.
What I dreaded, as I rounded my corner, was the painful pressure in my chest and jaw I often feel when I walk. But I knew that if I concentrated on that feeling, it would only feel worse. So I concentrated on what I could see, which is all the flowers and trees in bloom that think it is spring, despite the rain and despite the snow predicted for today.
After walking just a block, I saw something dive into a very low bush ahead of me. The bush was cropped short, with mingy little leaves the size of my small finger-nail and some sort of berries. Not one I would plant. When I got to it, I looked for what I had seen--a bird? But I didn't find it, only a bunch of brown oak leaves, from last year. Maybe I imagined it, or it was just a dried leaf, blown by the wind. Today the wind has tossed the yellow recycling tubs into the street.
A stand of rose bushes where I often pause to sniff in warm weather looked as if it got caught unawares. At first I thought the pink was early blooms, but it was just the backs of the leaves. They twirled, hanging limply. I wished I had a camera, to catch the tourmaline colors.
Another place I wished for a camera is when I noticed a spindly varigated daphne. The yellow-green edges of the leaves contrasted sharply with the dark burgundy of the flowers. There were many daphnes that I passed, but none as eye-catching as that one. I hope it thrives.
My usual walk is a loop, which I try to expand each time I go out. I took in the plants and looked for birds--saw only crows--and heard them! I concentrated on the flowering quince and forsythia, checked to see what trees were ready to bloom (like a small magnolia, with pussy-willow-buds) and just generally focussed on what I miss when I stay inside with the TV, computer and the books. As I passed the half way point, I was feeling taller and though I still plodded, I had forgotten the annoying rustle of my gortex hood and only noticed the ache in my back when I turned my attention to it.
I don't generally pay much attention to the people wrought stuff along the way, but someone had put a round mosaic step stone near that bush where there just might have been a bird. And smack at the edge of the sidewalk further along another person had laid some blue-glazed tile in an unlikely place--at the top of one section a short wall. Pretty.
I thought of those bits as I walked. Thought about that camera that I want, to record what catches my eye and heart. It must not weigh me down, or else it will just sit here, unused, like me.
When I had looped back to withing half a block of that small ugly bush, I decided backtrack and see if I had imagined something fluttering to it. As I walked toward it, I again saw something small and brown fly before me. Must have been a leaf, I thought. But when I got to the bush, out flew a bronze song sparrow. It flew to a break in another bush about twenty yards away, and peeked out at me. I had disturbed it and now I regretted that. I wondered if the brown leaves were part of its nest, but surely that couldn't be. No bird would nest in such a low bush right next to the sidewalk.
When I walked past Max's house, he was there, on the lawn. He dashed up the stairs and leaped up onto a window sill. Max is a lovely kitty, but thin and getting thinner. He peered in the window, but the rooms were all dark; his humans were at work. I felt a pang, seeing him unable to get inside. Could he sense snow in the wind?
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