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Category: walking

The Land of Other

The Land of Other

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Yesterday I escaped home and yard for a brief sojourn in the Land of Other. The Land of Other is not some mythical place far away. It is simply any place other than my own.

I hadn’t been in this land for two weeks, and it felt good to be there. It’s not that I mind being home all of the time. Mostly I don’t. But as the weeks wear on, and family members remain tantalizingly close, I can’t help but visit them.

Interactions were brief and mostly took place outside. There were two long walks, three frisky dogs, a daughter, a brother and — at the end, a box of take-out fried chicken.

Simple pleasures, deeply enjoyed. The Land of Other — it’s still out there. And knowing that makes me uncommonly happy.

Elevated Apes

Elevated Apes

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“It is the same shabby-genteel sentiment, the same vanity of birth which makes men prefer to believe that they are degenerated angels, rather than elevated apes.”  — William Winwood Reade

I thought of this quotation while on a recent walk with Copper. The little guy is old now and seems to have lost most of his hearing and much of his sight. But there’s nothing wrong with his nose. He must retain most of the 300 million olfactory receptors dogs are reputed to have because he seems to enjoy sniffing now more than ever.

But he’s not the only one. Every day on our strolls together (and on my solo walks), I take a deep whiff of lilac. Say what you will about stopping to smell the roses, it’s the lilacs I walk across the street to inhale.

Savoring their delicious aroma gives me a hint of the pleasure dogs take in their own frequent sniffing. It is, then, a unifying activity, one that reminds me that we are “elevated apes” rather than “degenerated angels.”


(I first read this quotation in the book Love, Sunrise and Elevated Apes, by Nina Leen, a volume I treasure for its wisdom and photography.) 

Long Woods Walk

Long Woods Walk

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Yesterday, I went out early for the weekly groceries, donned mask and gloves, observed social distancing, came home and wiped everything off before putting it all away and then decided …  I needed a walk. And not just any walk — but a long woods walk.

I took a Reston path that leads to the Cross County Trail. It’s a section of the CCT that I often stroll, but yesterday I went further, into a place where the first sign you see warns you of snakes in the area.

It’s a fitting intro to a wilder, more hike-like area. It was easy to imagine I was miles away not just from desk and to-dos — but also from the section of trail I just covered.

I nodded to a father and two sons jogging down the trail; to a man and his children who were exploring ants on a log; and to several others out enjoying the sun and pretending this was an ordinary spring Friday.

The music in my ears seemed redundant, so I pulled out the buds and listened to woodpeckers and robins. I stopped on a bridge over the Snakeden Branch Stream and heard the water talk to itself. How lovely and clear it looked as it tumbled over rocks, all white and frothy as it landed.

It was almost two hours later when I got back to the car. The walk had turned into a hike. The day seemed larger and brighter than it had before.

Quarantine Chalk Art

Quarantine Chalk Art

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Rain has pummeled the Kwanzan cherry, sending a shower of petals to the ground. Rain has also washed away the chalk messages that have been decorating driveways recently. I’ve been counting on these cheerful words on my daily walks around the neighborhood.

“Happy Easter! Happy Spring!” says one driveway.

“Don’t worry! Be happy!,” says another.

And my favorite —”Flatten the curve” — is undoubtedly by a Dr. Anthony Fauci wannabe.

Chalk art is one of the unexpected blessings of the quarantine.  Though the rain has washed away one batch, I know that another will sprout as soon as the pavement dries.

(Photo: Courtesy La Mesa Courier)

Sunday Stroll

Sunday Stroll

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So far, at least, we’re allowed to go outside, and I’m not alone in taking advantage of this privilege. The sidewalks and paths have been filled with bikers and walkers and rollerbladers. Today I found myself in a different neighborhood for a Sunday stroll.

It’s brisk, temperature in the 30s, but spring has sprung. The Bradford Pears are fully flowered, the daffodils are hanging on, and the forsythia is still sending its brilliant sprays skyward.

On this walk I found a swing and spent a pleasant few minutes pumping and flying, to the tune of Beethoven’s Waldstein, third movement.

Right up the path is a little lake bordered by flowering shrubs.— and there, I saw a bird I think could have been a scarlet tanager. It was a red bird with black wings, and it was gorgeous. Maybe it was a tanager, maybe it was not.* Either way, it was lovely.

(*Reason I will never be a birder.)

The Walk There

The Walk There

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From Tuesday through Thursday I attended a retreat/team-building conference held a mile or so from my former place of employment.

Work neighborhoods aren’t the same as home neighborhoods, but over time they make an impression, so the day before yesterday I took a sentimental stroll over there before my day officially began.

The soundtrack was Charlotte Church singing “When at Night I Go to Sleep,” which long ago became associated with this particular walk, especially the eastbound version of it.

It’s big, florid, sweet music, and when I hear it I remember those walks into the rising sun, the freedom I felt before I  entered the office, the fact that it always seems to be summer in my memory, pavement shimmering, folks already dragging in the heat.

I walked east on F Street, down 8th to E, then across the bridge. A major public works project was completed there in the four years since I’ve been gone, so the building looks different, more expansive. But arriving at the place wasn’t the point. It was the walk there.   

In the CIty

In the CIty

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It wasn’t where I thought I would be when I climbed up the Metro stairs, but it was close enough. It was the city, the city where I worked for 10 years and don’t work anymore.

It was the city where sidewalks would gleam with water sprayed from hoses in the hot summer sun.

It was the city where I would traipse home at the end of a long day.

It was the city that now, surprisingly, welcomed me home.

Shortcuts

Shortcuts

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Walkers in the suburbs may look serene and zen-like as they trod the paths and sidewalks, but underneath it all, they’re looking out for shortcuts, cut-throughs, a faster way to get from A to Z.

On the surface this makes no sense. Almost by definition, walkers in the suburbs aren’t trying to actually get anywhere. They’re walking just to walk. So why would they (read me!) want to shorten the trip?

Sometimes for variety. Sometimes because they really are trying to get somewhere (which was the case when I snapped this shot). And sometimes, just for the heck of it.

A shortcut can be a path to adventure.

Breathe In, Breathe Out

Breathe In, Breathe Out

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A nascent meditation program at the office has me listening to guided exercises that instruct us to “breathe in, breathe out” and to exist in the present, because that’s all we have.

The irony of doing this in the workplace does not escape me — future-oriented as it is and has to be — but my neck and shoulders constantly remind me that I need to chill out, so I close my eyes and try to float in the moment.

I concentrate on the breath, on the inflow and outflow, the filling up and the releasing. It’s true, the present moment is really all we have. There is a seat on Metro, there is a journal I can write in. And, later, there is a walk that will take me where I need to go.

Breathe in, breathe out.

The Trees

The Trees

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I read over the weekend of a dispute among neighbors over a stream restoration project in Hollin Hills. One side believes it’s imperative that Fairfax County fix the damaged stream and the polluted runoff that infests it. The other says that it’s doesn’t need to go about it in such a scorched-earth way.

One big difference between the two sides: preserving trees. As a walker in the suburbs, I know what it feels like to have a beloved woods opened up and hollowed out. Nature alone is doing such a grand job of this that it seems a shame for humans to be helping.

In our woods it sometimes seems as if there are as many downed trees as there are upright ones. Drought has weakened many of the old oaks and high winds have brought them down. The woods are open and airier than they used to be.

While this is just part of the cycle, I miss the denser, more all-encompassing woods that were here when we arrived. I miss the sense of enclosure, the way the light looks filtering through a dense canopy. All of which is to say that if I lived in Hollin Hills … I’d be fighting for the trees.