Little Bits of Everything

This morning I actually got up and started my walk at 8:30am. I am trying to work myself into an earlier 7:30am walk. But I typically wake up around 6:30am and it takes me an hour — sometimes more — to work my way through two or three or four cups of coffee and the front page of the NYT. That is, if I do not get sidetracked by the games. And let's face it, if the news is particularly grim, I head directly to the games to assure myself that some brain cells are still functioning when the world isn't making any sense.

I headed out with my favorite walking companion, John Green. He and his wonderful book The Anthropocene Reviewed are in my ear. I have a little less than four hours left and I am already mourning what I will do when it is complete. For now I allow myself one or two short stories, then spend the rest of the walk resonating over them. And listening to birds. I have recently discovered the Western Meadowlark. I am convinced some of the sounds R2-D2 makes were recorded from this guy. Claude says no. It was Ben Burtt's voice run through a synthesizer that coincidentally came out sounding like a Western Meadowlark. Regardless, I can hear their stunning song brilliantly through my earbuds. I am late to the earbud revolution. And for the most part, I can only use them for listening. I have a fat face, and when my mouth moves, it wiggles my ears and out pop the earbuds.

Glamorous women have their faces hollow out when they get older, doubling down on amazing cheekbones. Anything I ever had resembling a cheekbone has moved location and now identifies as a jowl. Even when I am not talking, the earbuds try to make a break for it. 

Yesterday the left one leapt into the dirt. I wondered briefly if I should not put it back in my ear. I walk in the land of plague. Yes, that plague. The one that killed 30 to 60% of Europe's population between 1347 and 1351. It took between 150 and 200 years for the population to return to pre-plague levels. I could very well have stuck plague in my ear. Fortunately, Mr. Black is no match for antibiotics, otherwise me and my fat face would likely be toast.

Still, I find it interesting that as I am walking through prairie dog metropolis, John Green is in my ear filling me in on the plague. He wrote this story during the pandemic. His story simultaneously makes me grateful that our plague is over, that it wasn't catastrophic in the way it would have been before science taught us a few things about viruses, and that my dad died of cancer — a disease that courteously allows family to gather close without jumping on them. The older I get, the more I appreciate a courteous death.

The walks I have been taking are long. Over an hour. That is a very luxurious way to spend an hour every day. Long, and yet such a small thing, considering the big happiness payoff. The last time I focused on small things was during the pandemic, and during my dad's illness. There was not going to be a big trip or even a Marvel movie premiere. What there was: a flock of pelicans that took over a third of the lake behind my parents' house. Appearing like hundreds and hundreds of white sailboats sparkling on impossibly blue water. Dad watched the birds. When he was too weak to do anything else, he would watch the birds with his own hawk eyes — gifted to him a few years earlier via cataract surgery.

So it is again that I am focusing on small things. Though I hadn't really thought about why. No one I love is actively dying. Mom is in good health. John is employed, for now. He is very aware that we are within five years of retirement. As he says almost daily, "We are no longer building wealth. What we have now is basically what we will have in five years." This affects every decision currently being made. I could walk over to Starbucks and get a $6 coffee, or I can make my own and have four cups instead.

I don't want to focus on what I don't have, so instead I am focusing on the little bits of everything I do have. I get to walk on open land. Open to everyone — me, the mountain bike riders, the irritatingly fit trail joggers, and all the critters that inhabit acres and acres of land we have mostly left blank. It is the same walk I do almost every day. I like not getting in the car to walk. I like walking out of my neighborhood into the blank canvas. 

John doesn't like it. There are no trees, no green grass, so many rocks. It does look like a moonscape. But now, there are prairie dog pups. They stick so close to their parents and each other. I saw a line of six of them, each with a small paw on the sibling in front. They snuggle and fall over each other and they are adorable. I have a game where I try to move past them without causing a retreat into their holes. I like to fancy myself the prairie dog whisperer, but it really isn't about me. They decide if they are too happy sunning themselves to react. Or, if whatever they are eating is worth tolerating my trespassing. They decide if I am going to be fussed at for 30 seconds or 30 minutes. I am talking to you, Ms. Grumpy Pants. We are neighbors. Can't I sit on the back patio without irritating you?

There are tiny, tiny flowers making their way through the rocky soil. I have pictures of them all. I was thinking this morning that slow travel doesn't have to be saved exclusively for exotic destinations. There are plenty of hidden gems in everyday life that get overlooked in the busyness. It is scary to sit on the edge of retirement and wonder if everything you did was enough. I completely understand why that is freaking out my husband. It is freaking me out some too. But it is also novel to embrace free time as a commodity. To not hurry back from a walk. To stand in one spot long enough to watch a meadowlark sing, his whole body participating in the activity. To see the shadow of a huge hawk — but it's not a hawk. It is a blue heron. A blue heron flying over the grasslands, taking a break from the pond to get a different view.