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The Market Walk

The Market Walk

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It was my first market walk of the season, visiting Reston’s farmer’s market before 9 so I could be fast-walking before 10. The paths are pleasant around Lake Anne, and homes are easy to fantasize about. Lake views, kayaks at the ready, dining and shopping within strolling distance.

But the best part was first milling around the market before the walk, choosing strawberries, zucchini and tomatoes; eying cherries, cabbages and asparagus. Taking the fruit and vegetables to the car and then trotting off down the cool, shady sidewalk.

A quarter-mile down the road I dodged off into the woods, where the path skirts the lake and runs alongside tall marsh grasses. Up a hill, down a hill. Looping back to the plaza and the market, which was in much fuller swing an hour later. All the while thinking of the tomatoes for lunch, the zucchini for dinner and the strawberries for breakfast.

Solace

Solace

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Last evening Copper and I ran down Folkstone Drive, reversed course at Blue Robin Court and returned via the woods trail. The path was still damp from last week’s rains, and I was glad I wore my old tennis shoes.

It didn’t take long for the woods to work its magic, for my shoulders to drop and my breathing to slow, for my pace to adjust to a non-asphalt stride. I thought about the woods of my childhood, building forts, feeling vaguely disobedient, straying too far, staying too long.

I thought about how long the natural world has brought me comfort, a lifetime of solace in the out-of-doors.

It was as if I had always been walking, always been inhaling the fragrance of smooth, clay-packed soil and marshy creek water. The aromas had been closer to my nose then, since my nose had been closer to the ground. But if I inhaled deeply enough, I could smell them still.

First Walk

First Walk

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Yesterday, the walk came first. I strolled out into the morning, the first day of my new year, and felt a sort of awe.

The headphones, they would remain in my hand. There were birds to listen to, morning music free for the taking. There was a bird that seemed to be saying “Judy, Judy, Judy,” a poor imitation of Cary Grant. There were crickets in the woods, chirping as if it were still night.

And then there were sights that made sounds unnecessary: banked clouds that seemed lit from inside, a wind stirring the high oak branches. Most of all there was a hush to the morning, a holding of breath.

I felt a sort of wonder at this new day, at the sheer gift of existence, of being alive. Beyond people and expectations. Part of the natural world for which we surely were made.

Now You See It …

Now You See It …

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Walking to Metro this morning I noticed a rubble-strewn lot where a block of low-slung buildings used to be. They were ugly little buildings but still … they existed — and now they do not.

Change is our reality, our destiny, what must be embraced.

I wonder if walking helps us better withstand the inevitable comings and goings of life? Not that there’s anything especially marvelous about walkers, of course, but because we are bopping around all the time we are also looking around all the time. We notice the old cars and the new shutters. We see the world in all its transitory glory.

The empty lot I passed today will one day be an apartment or office building, part of the new development taking place near the Reston Wiehle Metro station.

Or take this scene. Every day construction workers dismantle more of the barrier wall for I-395 near my office. Eventually they will install steel beams and girders and a new neighborhood will rise over the top of a busy highway.

Now you see it and now you don’t. And walkers see it (or don’t see it) first.

That May Morning

That May Morning

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When the weather is exquisite, most any walking path will do. I put this philosophy to the test a few days ago and did not find it wanting.

I started from a Target parking lot, a paved path around a containment pond where there was immediate gratification in the form of a trilling mockingbird. The bird perched on the lower limb of a small, low tree, which gave me a chance to stand and watch (as well as listen to) his performance. I almost clapped when he was done.

The path led to a new concrete sidewalk along a two-lane road. It was the kind of area we have many of in the suburbs, the kind you drive past on your way to somewhere else, the kind filled with self-storage units and auto body shops.

A sad little road if you were traversing it on a gloomy March afternoon. But on a sparkling May morning, the water spurting up in the sterile office park pond could have been the Trevi Fountain. That’s how intoxicating it was to be alive and walking on this late spring day.

(Photo by DAVID ILIFF. License: CC-BY-SA 3.0)

Reston Walk

Reston Walk

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On Saturday I walked a Reston trail, leaving from the park-and-ride lot, traipsing along Lawyers Road for a few hundred feet and then entering the sort of alternative walker’s universe that exists off-road in many places — if we only know where to look for it.

It was muggy and still with sunlight moving across the paved path like swells on the sea. Cardinals and robins darted in and out of the bushes or soared from one tree perch to another while a crow cawed plaintively in the distance.

A well-trod dirt footpath angled off the main trail. It looked so inviting — like the road to an enchanted castle in the forest — that I just had to take it. I strolled alongside yards and houses, past tennis courts and pools. I crossed two streets and interrupted more than one spiderweb before I reversed course and walked back the way I came.

It was just as special going the opposite way, with fetching twists and turns, a tiny bridge over a mossy-rocked brook, and newborn plants in secret gardens. It was proof to me of nature’s variety, and proof too that if we look for a place to walk one we can usually find one.

Parade of Humanity

Parade of Humanity

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It was one of the crazy-quilt walks that make you glad to be living and breathing on this earth. It is Police Week here in our Nation’s Capital, and E Street was clogged with the men in blue honoring their fallen comrades. I strolled past police of every stripe and family members wearing t-shirts with slogans like “In Search of Heroes.” I stepped over wires and past big banks of lights; noticed a box of white candles and another of red roses.

By Seventh Street I’d moved on to the hustle bustle of Chinatown and Penn Quarter. Feeling flush, I pulled two dollars from my purse to buy a copy of Street Sense, a newspaper written and sold by the homeless. My salesman was hawking another publication, too. “I used to be a cowboy,” he said, “and I’ve written this book. You can buy it on Amazon.”

Turning the corner I found myself in the middle of a line of wheelchairs; maybe these folks were heading to the Police Memorial, or maybe they were bound for the corner, where they would buy a book by a homeless cowboy poet.

As for me, the work day was draining away. In its place was a parade of humanity— and the precious walking time to take it in.

(View from another D.C. walk.)

Not So White Shoes

Not So White Shoes

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As I was saying, I love my white tennis shoes, took great pride in finding a pair that is not fluorescent pink or day-glow orange. The beauty of white shoes is that they’re white — but that’s also their problem. One is tempted to keep them always white. But that would mean keeping them always in a box.

I started out with good intentions, switching to my old shoes whenever I was going off road. But I don’t always know where my feet will take me. Sometimes I start on pavement but return home a different way.

Yesterday’s ramble took me into the neighborhood of South Field, where I thought I could pick up a path that meandered back to Folkstone. The path never emerged, and before long I was bushwhacking through downed trees and brambles. Ahead of me was a creek (there is always a creek around here; though we call them runs), so I searched the bank to find a narrow place to cross.

As you might expect, it wasn’t quite narrow enough.  I slipped and doused my right foot in creek water, then stepped back into a couple inches of  mud just for good measure.

I’m reminded of this quotation by John A. Shedd: “A ship in harbor is safe, but that’s not what ships are for.” The same could be said of white tennis shoes!

Walk to the Station

Walk to the Station

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Sometimes a body gets so tired sitting in one place for most of the day that when the body gets up to make its weary way to Metro, well, the body just wonders how this will actually happen.

Funny thing, though. As soon as the body gets moving, the body revives. Across the bridge, down E Street, past the courts, past the museum. There are streets to cross, “don’t walk” lights flashing. And there are corners to pause on, waiting for traffic to subside.

Doesn’t matter. The momentum is there. Even with the starting and the stopping the forward motion is still in the toes and the balls of the feet, and it banishes the weariness.

Into the Penn Quarter now. Folks in red jerseys are going to a Capitals game. Office-workers slowing down in front of a watering hole; maybe they’ll watch the game on screen. Tourists milling around the Spy Museum.  But most of us are going home. The tide of movement is more out than in.

And the tide carries me from E to F Streets, past the bakery and the wax museum and the boutiques, past the shoppers and the bus-waiters, right to the dim, inviting Metro entrance, the escalators (if I’m lucky) working, and the hustle bustle of life underground making it impossible to do anything but move quickly along the platform until I reach the spot where I always stand, first entrance, second car, one of the less crowded spots.

Soon the train zooms up and I’m aboard. Not really sure how this all happened … but it did!

White Shoes

White Shoes

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Before they are no longer new and no longer white I pause here to celebrate my new white tennis shoes. Anyone who has shopped for jogging shoes lately knows you can find plenty in day-glow orange or hot pink — but pitifully few plain white ones anymore. Even the sales clerks are apologetic.

My philosophy on shoes is that fit trumps everything, so I’ve had to swallow my love of the simple and inconspicuous lately to ensure that my toes aren’t scrunched and my heels aren’t slipping.

This year, however, there was a welcome confluence of fit and color, and I’m now the proud owner of white shoes (albeit with fluorescent green laces).

Not for long, of course. The toes are already smudged. But that’s a small price to pay for having them white to start off with.