Walking
SINCE COVID-19
Since Covid-19 I have taken to walking. We are not new to each other, walking and I. For well over forty-five years we have been pounding the pavement, traversing the trails, even hitting the hallway one blustery winter in college as I committed to taking off the freshman fifteen. This walking is different, though. . .
Just over five weeks ago, I woke each morning, got my kids off to school and then exercised for a half an hour or so—walking while listening to inspirational podcasts. The gentle movement solidified shifts in my world view as I listened to programs about racism and sexism. A devoted exerciser, I rarely missed a day, and almost always emerged awakened and inspired.
These days, while many things have irreparably shifted, the frequency of my walks has not. When my husband and I created our kid’s Knight School schedule, we agreed that I, as primary teacher, would need time to myself each morning to ensure my sanity. My first Coronavirus cavort began innocently enough. I set out on my usual path, plugging into Scene on Radio’s podcast entitled Men. The episode ended and I continued, pressing play on the next one, putting one foot in front of the other until that one, too ended and I found myself farther away from home than when I started. A third episode led me back home. The day was cold, but I arrived sweaty for the inaugural Monday of Knight School.
I welcomed Tuesday morning dressed in sneakers and multiple layers of fleece and down. The previous day had been taxing, but I had survived. . .
I had discovered that the morning’s physical exertion had enhanced my patience with my children, turned students. Thus, the hour and a half walk became my standard. I discovered new paths and connections between old ones. While once I had known my neighborhood, now I was becoming an expert.
On Wednesday, muddy shoes lead me toward running water. The babbling brook reflects the incessant voices in my head and somehow, in doing so, eases my mind. My former career prepared me for teaching, and there is something sweet about sharing that part of my life with my children now. But nothing could have ever readied me for the emotional shit show that is our current sheltering-in-place reality. A phrase on the podcast interrupts my racing thoughts, triggering a torrent of tears. I find myself crouched over my own knees, shaking with emotion, sobbing uncontrollably. The wave passes. I wipe my snotty face on my sleeve, conscious of the myriads of germs that I have just emitted. I walk away wondering how many steps I must take until I feel normal again.
Addendum. . .
Another Wednesday has come and gone. Thursday, I find myself in Vineyard Haven after a 6:30 a.m. masked morning trip to the grocery store. Gloves peeled off, hands sanitized, I leave the groceries in the parked car and don my headphones. Today, music beckons and instead of a podcast, I choose an album by MaMuse as accompaniment for my walking. The simple melodies blend with joyous harmonies and I am transported at once into the part of me that loves to learn lyrics. I hit repeat again and again, learning new songs, dreaming of someday being able to share them with others in person. Today, the thought of “someday” brushes against hope instead of triggering despair. Miles and minutes pass and the pavement beneath my feet turns to gravel, then dirt. My shoes step then scrape, scratching out a syncopated rhythm to accompany the harmonies that are seeping into my brain and filling my heart. Of their own accord, my arms drift upward, extend outward and I am circling, swinging, singing. For a blessed bit, the underlying fear flees and I am ecstatically alive.