I went for a solo walk in our neighborhood on Sunday while the boys were napping. It was profoundly centering to me and made me wonder why I didn’t ask for time to walk alone—without a destination, without a companion, without a phone—more often.
We live near a river, and its sandy banks are an easy 15-minute stroll from our house. I walked over into the quiet woods, across a large pedestrian bridge, and listened.
It takes a while, at least a mile on foot, for the brain to untangle itself. To let go of immediate tasks, to let go of anxieties, to let go of the self, just the tiniest bit.
I watched yellow perch waving in the creek and thought about death. (Call it a consequence of living for so long with a poet.) The swallows dipped and dove in front of me, startlingly close. I thought about how pleasant it is to have a body that mostly works, for now, and how it will not always feel this way. And rather than being suffused with dread, I felt immensely grateful.
On my return route, I watched some people unleash a Bernese mountain dog and an Irish wolfhound (which I have never seen before in real life and was a true thrill for me, personally) in the space between several houses and the railroad track. The wolfhound was loping at full speed, his enormous limbs stretched out in front of him like a horse, and he was taking a joyous lap around the house. As I walked past, he suddenly pivoted and ran straight at me. It felt like watching a lion run at you in slow motion. I stood still and faced him and braced for (what looked like it would be friendly) impact. But at the last moment, no more than a few feet from me, he swerved off to the left and circled back to his companion. I felt disappointed, not to have been knocked down by such a magnificent beast.
As I regained my breath and walked home, I thought about a phrase my friend and colleague Greg shared in a recent email. It reverberated in my brain, as if it were synchronizing with my steps: All is gift.
All—footfall—is—footfall—gift.
Enemies Wendell Berry If you are not to become a monster, you must care what they think. If you care what they think, how will you not hate them, and so become a monster of the opposite kind? From where then is love to come—love for your enemy that is the way of liberty? From forgiveness. Forgiven, they go free of you, and you of them; they are to you as sunlight on a green branch. You must not think of them again, except as monsters like yourself, pitiable because unforgiving.
These little men are full of delights and demands.
They’re enjoying their bright, active summer at home with our perseverant nanny, Miss Megan, who watched them last year. She’s unflappable, which is perhaps the most important quality for a caregiver of two small boys. All day long, they wander back and forth from the garden to the yard to the park to the pool to the river to the library. And then wake up at 6 ready to do it all over again. They, like most animals, myself included, cherish their routines.
It is difficult to comprehend and note how quickly they are growing up. Both of their vocabularies are blooming. They seem to acquire a new skill every day. I wonder what it must be like—because I forget what it was like, of course—to be developing at such a rapid pace. What does your brain feel like when you learn three to five new words—and their attending concepts—every day?
More opinions that have made me unpopular lately
Not sure if people should own cats. If they do, not sure these cats should ever go outside unsupervised.
Don’t kill spiders, snakes, and wasps just because you saw one. These creatures all have important, valuable jobs to do, and the vast majority of them are not out to get you.
Putting trust in politicians to save us, especially those who run for presidency, is like building your house on sand.
Chewing gum is a bovine pastime.
Currently reading
Rethink Your Position, Katy Bowman
Who’s Your Founding Father?, David Fleming
Kudos, Rachel Cusk