As a follow-up to last week's post about Rebecca Solnit's book on the anthropology of walking, I should mention that I went out of my usual bounds today to take a short walk downtown. I used to work downtown, and its streets, buildings, cafes, and sidewalks were a part of everyday life, but I rarely have reason to go there anymore. I was only there today because I needed to go to the library on an errand and decided it would be easiest to go to the main branch. I was struck by how little downtown felt like a "hometown" any more, in any sense of the word. I almost had the feeling that I had been living elsewhere and dropped in for a visit after an absence of several years--that's how alien it felt. And yet I've been here all along.
There have been many, many changes downtown over the years; I'm old enough to remember "Urban Renewal," and even before that, what the city looked like when it still had department stores on Main Street. I have nothing against shopping malls per se, but I do think the decline of downtown areas as principal shopping districts has had a bad effect on many communities that they have spent years trying to compensate for. In many cases, "downtown" is still the principal business district and offers such diversions as restaurants, museums, and nightclubs--such is the case here. But the changes I felt were more subtle than the coming and going of a business, the resurfacing of a street, or the introduction of a new parking lot. The soul of the place seemed to have leaked out somehow.
It looks much the same now as it did when I was down there every weekday, but it felt foreign to me. Of course, you have a major problem any time the center of your downtown district has, literally, a hole in it. Directly across from the library is a huge pit in the ground that takes up an entire block, the result of a stalled construction project that began a number of years ago, when I still worked downtown, in fact. Why would any city, especially one with such pride in its historic districts and one-time reputation as the "Athens of the West," allow such a gaping hole to exist for years at a time in one of the most visible spots in the entire city? Good question.
Some people regarded the long-existing buildings on the block before demolition as eyesores; others saw them as treasures. I remember trying to frame what was happening during the initial controversy over the project, a proposed multi-story hotel, in mythological terms. Certainly it seemed that two diametrically opposed forces were at work, one that valued the old and one that championed the new, a sort of clash of the Titans. Regardless of the merits of the project itself and who was right and who was wrong about its benefits and costs, it's tough to argue that having what looks like a rock quarry in the middle of Main Street is an improvement over what was there before. It gives downtown an air of neglect.
I can remember when it was fun to walk around and notice little things, a pocket garden here, a public art project there, something in a store window that caught the eye. A public art project called "Horse Mania" once transformed the streets into an outdoor sculpture garden with creativity and imagination on display at every turn--who would have thought there were so many ways to interpret the basic form of a fiberglass horse? Another project involved the installation of doors recovered from a demolished housing project that had been transformed into works of art--pure genius.
When I looked around today, I noticed a couple of sad-looking murals, neither one of which did much to appeal to either the eye or the heart. I actually stopped and asked a parking lot attendant who had painted the mural of the somewhat demented-looking elvish creatures presiding over one corner. He couldn't tell me. Any city that allows something like that to pass for art needs a bit of shaking up, if you ask me, and you didn't, but I'll tell you anyway. No amount of Thursday Night Lives or Gallery Hops is going to cover up something like that. Why is it even there?
It seems to me that the genius loci of our town is either missing in action, falling down on the job, or has something else in mind. If that's what passes for progress, I guess I'll stick to the suburbs. They're only marginally better, but at least there's no risk of stepping off the sidewalk and falling into a chasm that could lead, who knows, right into the center of the earth. I mean, it's a really big hole.
Showing posts with label walking. Show all posts
Showing posts with label walking. Show all posts
Friday, September 9, 2016
Thursday, September 1, 2016
Walking in the World
This week I finished reading Rebecca Solnit's Wanderlust, a book about the anthropology of walking. I bought it in the gift shop of a labyrinth site years ago, around the time I was starting to write my dissertation, and while it includes a section on labyrinths, it covers many other topics, including walking as politics, art, recreation, travel, and protest. The genius of this work lies in the way it takes a simple, everyday act and reveals how complex it really is when viewed through multiple lenses: scientific, poetic and literary, religious, sociological, legal, historical, and artistic.
As Ms. Solnit describes it, the history of walking can almost be seen as an analog of the history of human consciousness. There was a time when people simply walked to get from place to place, without necessarily thinking about it. When they did become conscious of walking as an act that could be indulged in for other than utilitarian reasons, it rose from the level of biological behavior to cultural phenomenon. A person might walk for enjoyment and the expression of individual freedom, as did the Wordsworths in the Lake District; in concert with others as an expression of social solidarity or political protest; for religious reasons, as in a pilgrimage, for reasons of health; or, in an especially self-conscious and highly evolved version of the act, as performance art.
Some of this may sound a bit frivolous or light-hearted, but underlying all of these various dimensions of walking is the fact that it is ultimately an expression of individual will. The author's exploration of the ways in which societies have attempted to limit where and when their citizens may walk reveals that there are reasons besides those of safety and order for imposing controls on this basic act. Especially intriguing, as Solnit points out, is the role public spaces play in facilitating or hindering the movement and assembly of citizens as participants in their government, especially when they are advocating for change.
Solnit mentions two cities as particularly conducive to citizen gatherings: San Francisco and Paris, both of which are known for vibrant street life, protest, and revolution. Especially enlightening was her consideration of Paris as it was during the Revolution (still a largely medieval city with many narrow streets and byways) and as it was post-Baron Haussmann (redesigned, with many wide, straight boulevards), both of which managed to accommodate a determined citizenry seeking social change. The fact that Parisians utilized the city streets to advantage both before and after the redesign says more about the ingenuity of the people than it does about the success of the government in controlling their behavior--but it's also true that cities can discourage people from moving about, assembling, and engaging in civic life, either by laws or design decisions.
I would have enjoyed a look at some of the American cities, such as Boston, that played a role in our own American Revolution. I do know that in its modern form Boston is a great city for pedestrians; I'm not sure what role its layout might have played in the events of the eighteenth century. It's certainly possible to argue that, based on events such as Occupy Wall Street and other recent protests, any city, even some of those Solnit deems less conducive to activism, can be transformed when people are motivated enough to hit the streets.
Of course, I read the book through the lens of my own experiences as a walker, which are largely centered on exercise, enjoyment, and the need to get from place to place (with an occasional foray into protest as well). And here, I'll make an admission: although I enjoy walking and hiking and have engaged in both in all kinds of weather, and although I have written a book on labyrinths, I'm not especially fond of labyrinth walking. I find labyrinths beautiful, but in actual practice they usually don't conform to my idea of pleasurable walking, being too narrow for the purpose, with too many awkward turns. If mobility and freedom are the chief pleasures of walking, labyrinths act to constrict that freedom, requiring you, if you stay within the lines, to curtail your movements to a predetermined path. I know that some people find this meditative and soothing, and I'll certainly allow that there are times this might be so, but when I set out to walk, I like the idea that I am the author of it, not the reader of someone else's signposts.
One of walking's great benefits is that, under most circumstances (unless you're a stair walker or something similar), you're required to keep your feet on the ground or close to it. It may seem too obvious to matter, but walking, by its very nature, encourages a mindset of groundedness, even if you're daydreaming, writing poetry, or solving mathematical problems while you're doing it. Your mind can roam at will, but your feet are still on the earth, and your view of things is similar to what it has always been for human beings, close to the ground, looking up at the trees and the sky. I rather like that aspect of it; all I ask for is sturdy shoes.
If you're interested in such questions as: How did humans become bipedal? What is a flaneur? Why do Jane Austen's heroines spend so much time walking outdoors? Is walking on a treadmill real walking? and Why would you spend three months walking across China to greet someone and then keep going? you will likely get much enjoyment from Solnit's book. She answers these and many other questions and may transform the way you think about walking.
As Ms. Solnit describes it, the history of walking can almost be seen as an analog of the history of human consciousness. There was a time when people simply walked to get from place to place, without necessarily thinking about it. When they did become conscious of walking as an act that could be indulged in for other than utilitarian reasons, it rose from the level of biological behavior to cultural phenomenon. A person might walk for enjoyment and the expression of individual freedom, as did the Wordsworths in the Lake District; in concert with others as an expression of social solidarity or political protest; for religious reasons, as in a pilgrimage, for reasons of health; or, in an especially self-conscious and highly evolved version of the act, as performance art.
Some of this may sound a bit frivolous or light-hearted, but underlying all of these various dimensions of walking is the fact that it is ultimately an expression of individual will. The author's exploration of the ways in which societies have attempted to limit where and when their citizens may walk reveals that there are reasons besides those of safety and order for imposing controls on this basic act. Especially intriguing, as Solnit points out, is the role public spaces play in facilitating or hindering the movement and assembly of citizens as participants in their government, especially when they are advocating for change.
Solnit mentions two cities as particularly conducive to citizen gatherings: San Francisco and Paris, both of which are known for vibrant street life, protest, and revolution. Especially enlightening was her consideration of Paris as it was during the Revolution (still a largely medieval city with many narrow streets and byways) and as it was post-Baron Haussmann (redesigned, with many wide, straight boulevards), both of which managed to accommodate a determined citizenry seeking social change. The fact that Parisians utilized the city streets to advantage both before and after the redesign says more about the ingenuity of the people than it does about the success of the government in controlling their behavior--but it's also true that cities can discourage people from moving about, assembling, and engaging in civic life, either by laws or design decisions.
I would have enjoyed a look at some of the American cities, such as Boston, that played a role in our own American Revolution. I do know that in its modern form Boston is a great city for pedestrians; I'm not sure what role its layout might have played in the events of the eighteenth century. It's certainly possible to argue that, based on events such as Occupy Wall Street and other recent protests, any city, even some of those Solnit deems less conducive to activism, can be transformed when people are motivated enough to hit the streets.
Of course, I read the book through the lens of my own experiences as a walker, which are largely centered on exercise, enjoyment, and the need to get from place to place (with an occasional foray into protest as well). And here, I'll make an admission: although I enjoy walking and hiking and have engaged in both in all kinds of weather, and although I have written a book on labyrinths, I'm not especially fond of labyrinth walking. I find labyrinths beautiful, but in actual practice they usually don't conform to my idea of pleasurable walking, being too narrow for the purpose, with too many awkward turns. If mobility and freedom are the chief pleasures of walking, labyrinths act to constrict that freedom, requiring you, if you stay within the lines, to curtail your movements to a predetermined path. I know that some people find this meditative and soothing, and I'll certainly allow that there are times this might be so, but when I set out to walk, I like the idea that I am the author of it, not the reader of someone else's signposts.
One of walking's great benefits is that, under most circumstances (unless you're a stair walker or something similar), you're required to keep your feet on the ground or close to it. It may seem too obvious to matter, but walking, by its very nature, encourages a mindset of groundedness, even if you're daydreaming, writing poetry, or solving mathematical problems while you're doing it. Your mind can roam at will, but your feet are still on the earth, and your view of things is similar to what it has always been for human beings, close to the ground, looking up at the trees and the sky. I rather like that aspect of it; all I ask for is sturdy shoes.
If you're interested in such questions as: How did humans become bipedal? What is a flaneur? Why do Jane Austen's heroines spend so much time walking outdoors? Is walking on a treadmill real walking? and Why would you spend three months walking across China to greet someone and then keep going? you will likely get much enjoyment from Solnit's book. She answers these and many other questions and may transform the way you think about walking.
Thursday, July 9, 2015
Off-Trail on the Fourth of July
The Fourth of July has come and gone, and it was a quiet one here. I considered taking my lawn chair to the top of the hill and watching the official fireworks from there, though I never found out if the show was even being held downtown, and the weather didn't seem that promising. I also considered seeing if I could buy sparklers for my own mini-celebration: I had a momentary vision of myself twirling one in each hand like a majorette while running around the yard. In the end, though, I settled for a walk in the park, conducted with what I believe was the proper amount of adult decorum, though I did sing a little when no one was near.
It was a humid, cloudy evening, and most of the action was obviously elsewhere as the neighborhood was quite still except for the sound of firecrackers going off here and there. The June bugs, the fireflies (which lit up the woods and grass like a convocation of fallen stars), and I had the place mostly to ourselves except for a few determined walkers. I went off-trail, which I enjoy doing now and then because there are a number of beguiling paths winding across the meadows and through the trees, and anyway, why rush? The Fourth of July should be spent outdoors.
It was while I was wandering through the trees that a partial clearing in the west revealed a fiery orange sunset, which faded briefly to pink before sinking into grayness. Something about that brief, almost lurid glow, along with the fact that I was remembering a particular family Fourth of July from long ago, got me to thinking about my grandparents' backyard, and before I knew it, I had mentally transposed this sunset onto that setting. I don't recall ever seeing a sunset like that at my grandparents' house, but my mind brought the two things together in a sort of magical prelude to a short story in which I imagined walking out of the woods and into that long-ago yard (which doesn't exist anymore) with an adult sensibility.
I wrote the story in my head while standing in the woods, imagining how it would end, and by the time I did that and walked out of the trees, the actual sunset itself was going. I'm not sure why an image never seen before melded itself so seamlessly to an actual memory, but it did, and that was how I came to be writing a short story in my head, in the park, on the Fourth of July, instead of barbecuing or celebrating in some other more expected way. But after all, it was Independence Day, a holiday in the spirit of defying tradition if there ever was one.
As the sun went down, I got a glimpse of some far-off fireworks exploding on the horizon, and on the way home, I paused briefly to watch a more modest fireworks celebration being conducted by a family or two on a court behind the student housing complex. So, in the end, my low-key Fourth, unambitious as it was, was not devoid of either inspiration or firecrackers--as no Independence Day should ever be.
It was a humid, cloudy evening, and most of the action was obviously elsewhere as the neighborhood was quite still except for the sound of firecrackers going off here and there. The June bugs, the fireflies (which lit up the woods and grass like a convocation of fallen stars), and I had the place mostly to ourselves except for a few determined walkers. I went off-trail, which I enjoy doing now and then because there are a number of beguiling paths winding across the meadows and through the trees, and anyway, why rush? The Fourth of July should be spent outdoors.
It was while I was wandering through the trees that a partial clearing in the west revealed a fiery orange sunset, which faded briefly to pink before sinking into grayness. Something about that brief, almost lurid glow, along with the fact that I was remembering a particular family Fourth of July from long ago, got me to thinking about my grandparents' backyard, and before I knew it, I had mentally transposed this sunset onto that setting. I don't recall ever seeing a sunset like that at my grandparents' house, but my mind brought the two things together in a sort of magical prelude to a short story in which I imagined walking out of the woods and into that long-ago yard (which doesn't exist anymore) with an adult sensibility.
I wrote the story in my head while standing in the woods, imagining how it would end, and by the time I did that and walked out of the trees, the actual sunset itself was going. I'm not sure why an image never seen before melded itself so seamlessly to an actual memory, but it did, and that was how I came to be writing a short story in my head, in the park, on the Fourth of July, instead of barbecuing or celebrating in some other more expected way. But after all, it was Independence Day, a holiday in the spirit of defying tradition if there ever was one.
As the sun went down, I got a glimpse of some far-off fireworks exploding on the horizon, and on the way home, I paused briefly to watch a more modest fireworks celebration being conducted by a family or two on a court behind the student housing complex. So, in the end, my low-key Fourth, unambitious as it was, was not devoid of either inspiration or firecrackers--as no Independence Day should ever be.
Wednesday, March 4, 2015
A Writer in Winter
The silence I hear outside right now is due to a muffling effect; there are several inches of snow already, it's been falling fast since early evening, and there could be a foot of it by tomorrow. This is shaping up to be a repeat of the big snowstorm of two weeks ago, which had nearly finished melting off as of today. We've had almost all our winter near the end of the season; spring is just over two weeks away.
Naturally, a writer should be at home in any kind of weather. No matter the climate, the heck with the season, anything is potential material--in theory, anyway. Bad weather provides a golden opportunity to think, read, write, look through your drawers, make hot tea, and twiddle your thumbs. Failing inspiration, you can always bake bread, make soup, practice yoga, give yourself a spa treatment, or dance to zydeco in your living room. But even the most stoic of writers needs fresh air at some point, and that's not easy with a foot of snow on the ground and temperatures in single digits.
Over the last few days, I've been able to go for walks, though it hasn't been loads of fun since the post-storm landscape has involved a lot of sludge and standing water, not to mention persistent icy patches. Nothing, however, that you couldn't get around, if you really wanted to and weren't averse to mud. And it was nothing compared to the day I hiked through the park when the snow was still deep--and hiking really is the word. That turned out to be more exercise than I'd bargained for.
It was a couple of Sundays ago, and the temperature was mild enough that an hour's walk didn't involve the risk of hypothermia. I was feeling the need to stretch my legs, having been unable to do so since the previous weekend, so I pulled on my boots and crunch, crunch crunched my way up the street. At that point, we'd had several days of melting, but the snow was still half a foot or more deep in places. It wasn't so much that it was icy but that it was like walking through sand--just difficult to get anywhere. Needless to say, there was hardly anyone out. The path was hidden under snow, though a few people before me had somehow managed to find it and blaze a very sketchy trail.
I slipped and slid around as best I could, trying to stay on the path when I could see it. The air was refreshing, and the wintry scene pretty enough, if a little gray--though I'd much rather it had been summer. It took me half again as long to do the walk as it normally does. I ran into even more difficulty two-thirds of the way around when I came to a stretch where the snow was undisturbed by anything except a single bicycle track. Determined to finish, I struggled on. What I really needed were snowshoes, but lacking that, I relied on native stubbornness. I had three things in mind: 1. what a good workout it was 2. that I was possibly making it easier for someone who might come along later and 3. how fast I was going to get into my down slippers when I got home.
The long and short is that I did make it through the untrod territory and eventually around the whole circuit. I didn't realize how hard I'd been working until I got back onto an actual (mostly clear) sidewalk that allowed for a normal gait; ordinary walking suddenly felt like floating, the easiest thing in the world. I stepped into some muddy water at the end of my street and managed to get my feet wet, but since I was almost home, it didn't matter. I pulled my boots off right inside the door, put on my slippers, and thought about dinner. I was also thinking that I'd never have gone on that walk if I'd known how uncongenial it was going to be, but now that it was over, I felt pretty virtuous.
From what I hear, this week's winter blast will be followed by relatively mild temperatures next week, so maybe we'll have a faster melt-off this time and I won't have to make another deep-snow trek. We'll see how it goes. Yoga and living room dance sessions are great as far as they go, but writers need to walk, too. I don't know if this is universally true, but I suspect it might be. I won't say I do some of my best thinking while walking, because I've done my best thinking in all sorts of situations, but putting one foot in front of the other does seems to jar things loose sometimes, in more ways than one.
Naturally, a writer should be at home in any kind of weather. No matter the climate, the heck with the season, anything is potential material--in theory, anyway. Bad weather provides a golden opportunity to think, read, write, look through your drawers, make hot tea, and twiddle your thumbs. Failing inspiration, you can always bake bread, make soup, practice yoga, give yourself a spa treatment, or dance to zydeco in your living room. But even the most stoic of writers needs fresh air at some point, and that's not easy with a foot of snow on the ground and temperatures in single digits.
Over the last few days, I've been able to go for walks, though it hasn't been loads of fun since the post-storm landscape has involved a lot of sludge and standing water, not to mention persistent icy patches. Nothing, however, that you couldn't get around, if you really wanted to and weren't averse to mud. And it was nothing compared to the day I hiked through the park when the snow was still deep--and hiking really is the word. That turned out to be more exercise than I'd bargained for.
It was a couple of Sundays ago, and the temperature was mild enough that an hour's walk didn't involve the risk of hypothermia. I was feeling the need to stretch my legs, having been unable to do so since the previous weekend, so I pulled on my boots and crunch, crunch crunched my way up the street. At that point, we'd had several days of melting, but the snow was still half a foot or more deep in places. It wasn't so much that it was icy but that it was like walking through sand--just difficult to get anywhere. Needless to say, there was hardly anyone out. The path was hidden under snow, though a few people before me had somehow managed to find it and blaze a very sketchy trail.
I slipped and slid around as best I could, trying to stay on the path when I could see it. The air was refreshing, and the wintry scene pretty enough, if a little gray--though I'd much rather it had been summer. It took me half again as long to do the walk as it normally does. I ran into even more difficulty two-thirds of the way around when I came to a stretch where the snow was undisturbed by anything except a single bicycle track. Determined to finish, I struggled on. What I really needed were snowshoes, but lacking that, I relied on native stubbornness. I had three things in mind: 1. what a good workout it was 2. that I was possibly making it easier for someone who might come along later and 3. how fast I was going to get into my down slippers when I got home.
The long and short is that I did make it through the untrod territory and eventually around the whole circuit. I didn't realize how hard I'd been working until I got back onto an actual (mostly clear) sidewalk that allowed for a normal gait; ordinary walking suddenly felt like floating, the easiest thing in the world. I stepped into some muddy water at the end of my street and managed to get my feet wet, but since I was almost home, it didn't matter. I pulled my boots off right inside the door, put on my slippers, and thought about dinner. I was also thinking that I'd never have gone on that walk if I'd known how uncongenial it was going to be, but now that it was over, I felt pretty virtuous.
From what I hear, this week's winter blast will be followed by relatively mild temperatures next week, so maybe we'll have a faster melt-off this time and I won't have to make another deep-snow trek. We'll see how it goes. Yoga and living room dance sessions are great as far as they go, but writers need to walk, too. I don't know if this is universally true, but I suspect it might be. I won't say I do some of my best thinking while walking, because I've done my best thinking in all sorts of situations, but putting one foot in front of the other does seems to jar things loose sometimes, in more ways than one.
Saturday, October 4, 2014
Kale and Zen
It's a football Saturday in Lexington, and that means coming up with a plan. Not only do you have to figure out how to outwit gridlock on the streets, you have to decide how sociable you want to be if you're on foot. Cars and people stream in from everywhere to converge on Commonwealth Stadium; if you don't meet humanity on the road, you meet them on the sidewalk . . . lots of them. Late this afternoon, I was still trying to decide how to find some fresh air without getting caught up in crowds and finally let my stomach make the call. If I went ahead and fixed dinner, I could go for a walk afterwards and get back before dark.
I spent an hour or so chopping and rinsing and putting things into the Dutch oven while sounds of cars and people increased to a mild roar outside. After eating two bowls of Italian soup with tomatoes and kale, I decided a walk in the Arboretum would likely involve fewer crowds on a football evening than it would otherwise, so I put on my shoes and started out.
I walked outside into the quintessential fall evening in Lexington, with football fans everywhere on my block, a bustle on the streets, golden sunshine, and a pleasant coolness in the air. Though I sometimes don't enjoy crowds, the feeling of festivity was very congenial after a quiet day spent mostly inside. There were cars inching along, white tents with knots of people under them, smells of barbecue, radios broadcasting sports chatter, and faces bright with anticipation of the game. The atmosphere was merry but not rowdy.
I passed fans heading toward the bleachers, security officers directing traffic, and RVs jamming the parking lots opposite the stadium. Once I got into the Arboretum itself, a mellow air of quiet reigned. Most of the people I saw were passing through the park on their way to the main event. It was lovely to be able to set my own pace and not have to contend with a crowded path. I noticed lots of squirrels rustling in the leaves for acorns, seemingly at leisure in the absence of the large numbers of fast-moving exercisers more typical of a mild evening.
The sun was going down in tangerine splendor, I could hear myself think, and the air felt newly washed after yesterday's rain. Near the footbridge, I passed a black cat under the trees, intent on some business of his own, though he paused to take a look at me. After the path bent toward the north, I had a view of the campus water tower up ahead, bathed in apricot light from the sun, and further off, the stadium, its powerful overhead lights contrasting sharply with a dark mass of clouds building up behind it. It looked suitably dramatic as a place of contest, and I could hear the noises of the crowd. When I got to the part of the path that parallels the road, I saw that traffic was still heavy around the stadium, and I was glad to be on my own feet.
I don't know what it was--a burst of energy from the crisp air, the feeling of revelry nearby, the waxing moon overhead, the placid beauty of the park (or maybe it was the kale--it has a lot of healthy properties, I hear)--but as I entered the final Arboretum loop, I experienced a rare thing: without meaning to, I stumbled into the Zen of walking. There seemed to be no resistance to my forward movement; my legs felt strong and my feet invincible. Even the feeling of my feet coming into steady contact with the path was a pleasure. My stride became so effortless that I almost felt the need to put the brakes on to keep from floating off. (I know what you're thinking: If it's the kale that does that, I'm getting some.)
The feeling held, then passed, and then I was making my way across the grass toward the sidewalk skirting the parking lot, encountering stadium-bound stragglers and the same slow line of cars trying to go who knows where and not getting there very fast. The game was underway, things had calmed down on my street, and I could see the lights of home ahead. I was moving at a more mundane pace now, having crossed the invisible line back into ordinary, purposeful walking, and was thinking of dishes and other things I needed to do.
I'll tell you what, though. After I got home and put the dishes in the sink, I sat down with some good, old-fashioned Hershey's dark (with almonds and toffee for extra zest) and tried to eat it slowly. Maybe, somewhere in my mind, I was hoping to build on the essential vitamins and minerals I'd already derived from the kale, but mainly, I just wanted dessert. It was one of the things I was thinking of as I walked down my street.
I spent an hour or so chopping and rinsing and putting things into the Dutch oven while sounds of cars and people increased to a mild roar outside. After eating two bowls of Italian soup with tomatoes and kale, I decided a walk in the Arboretum would likely involve fewer crowds on a football evening than it would otherwise, so I put on my shoes and started out.
I walked outside into the quintessential fall evening in Lexington, with football fans everywhere on my block, a bustle on the streets, golden sunshine, and a pleasant coolness in the air. Though I sometimes don't enjoy crowds, the feeling of festivity was very congenial after a quiet day spent mostly inside. There were cars inching along, white tents with knots of people under them, smells of barbecue, radios broadcasting sports chatter, and faces bright with anticipation of the game. The atmosphere was merry but not rowdy.
I passed fans heading toward the bleachers, security officers directing traffic, and RVs jamming the parking lots opposite the stadium. Once I got into the Arboretum itself, a mellow air of quiet reigned. Most of the people I saw were passing through the park on their way to the main event. It was lovely to be able to set my own pace and not have to contend with a crowded path. I noticed lots of squirrels rustling in the leaves for acorns, seemingly at leisure in the absence of the large numbers of fast-moving exercisers more typical of a mild evening.
The sun was going down in tangerine splendor, I could hear myself think, and the air felt newly washed after yesterday's rain. Near the footbridge, I passed a black cat under the trees, intent on some business of his own, though he paused to take a look at me. After the path bent toward the north, I had a view of the campus water tower up ahead, bathed in apricot light from the sun, and further off, the stadium, its powerful overhead lights contrasting sharply with a dark mass of clouds building up behind it. It looked suitably dramatic as a place of contest, and I could hear the noises of the crowd. When I got to the part of the path that parallels the road, I saw that traffic was still heavy around the stadium, and I was glad to be on my own feet.
I don't know what it was--a burst of energy from the crisp air, the feeling of revelry nearby, the waxing moon overhead, the placid beauty of the park (or maybe it was the kale--it has a lot of healthy properties, I hear)--but as I entered the final Arboretum loop, I experienced a rare thing: without meaning to, I stumbled into the Zen of walking. There seemed to be no resistance to my forward movement; my legs felt strong and my feet invincible. Even the feeling of my feet coming into steady contact with the path was a pleasure. My stride became so effortless that I almost felt the need to put the brakes on to keep from floating off. (I know what you're thinking: If it's the kale that does that, I'm getting some.)
The feeling held, then passed, and then I was making my way across the grass toward the sidewalk skirting the parking lot, encountering stadium-bound stragglers and the same slow line of cars trying to go who knows where and not getting there very fast. The game was underway, things had calmed down on my street, and I could see the lights of home ahead. I was moving at a more mundane pace now, having crossed the invisible line back into ordinary, purposeful walking, and was thinking of dishes and other things I needed to do.
I'll tell you what, though. After I got home and put the dishes in the sink, I sat down with some good, old-fashioned Hershey's dark (with almonds and toffee for extra zest) and tried to eat it slowly. Maybe, somewhere in my mind, I was hoping to build on the essential vitamins and minerals I'd already derived from the kale, but mainly, I just wanted dessert. It was one of the things I was thinking of as I walked down my street.
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
Showing Up in Person at the County Clerk's
So, here we are, magically transported to Lapland, courtesy of a new mini-polar vortex, or bombogenesis, or whatever it is this week. Seriously, didn't I say you could never tell with these beckoning spirals? Instead of Coppertone and sand in our shoes, we're facing salt trucks and extra layers, at least where I live. So be it. Sometimes you just have to wait, relying on delayed gratification to deliver spring the same way it always does, by the calendar.
But a winter storm has its merits. I was thinking about that yesterday while warming up my car and knocking off the snow prior to a trip downtown. I could have mailed in my auto registration fee, but what fun would that be? Instead, I was multitasking: clearing my car and moving it off the street, getting some fresh air, saving the mail-in fee, beating the deadline, and, less prosaically, preparing to enjoy a walk in the snow.
People seemed to be driving cautiously, and I arrived downtown without incident, parking behind the old Carnegie Library. Gratz Park is pretty in any season, and swathed in snow, it looks like a Victorian Christmas card. On foot, I headed down Market Street, past the Gothic church with the pretty little hedge garden, and turned left on Short. I walked past the little clock shop, which doubles as a magic and novelties emporium, and encountered a parking lot attendant shoveling snow. I found myself in a wind tunnel, with icy air whipping around the buildings and hitting me head-on, the Lexington mini-version of Chicago. I was now thinking less about fresh air and more about getting warm and actually jogged around a slower moving pedestrian near the courthouse.
After a brief stop to warm my hands and get cash for the County Clerk's office, I was out again in a white world of big, swirling flakes. I was by no means the only person out; walking, while requiring more energy than usual, was not especially hazardous--just cold. Once inside the Clerk's office, I saw that my calculation had paid off and that the line for auto registration had only a few people. Waiting for my turn gave me a chance to warm up again. A few minutes later, new sticker in hand, I glided back into the snowstorm, doing my own version of the Waltz of the Snowflakes, minus the toe shoes and a little of the grace.
The park in front of the main library, on warm days, is full of people lounging; there was none of that yesterday, as anyone who was out was moving with purpose. I noticed the construction zone across from the park before I slipped across Main Street, sallied past the courthouse, and turned left. After seeing my reflection in a store window and deciding that I could pass for an extra in either Doctor Zhivago or The Snow Queen, I stopped under an overhang to brush off snow and stamp around a little. Pressing on, I turned right on a quiet, pedestrian-free Upper Street and enjoyed the fact that I was out of the wind.
Along the little street next to the church, past the brick wall and the perfume shop, and there was Market Street once again. I took a minute to notice the stateliness of the Carnegie Library as seen from the front, solid and elegant amid bare trees and snow, and reflected that if I were a visitor, I would be exclaiming over the loveliness of this town. What's commonplace often fails to impress because it's so familiar, but catch it from the corner of your eye, or from a different angle, or with the context slightly altered, and you see it anew. If I had been hoping for a moment of beauty on my little walk, this was it.
I glissaded the rest of the way to my parking spot thinking about the fact that I'm (unavoidably) always affixing a new license plate or sticker to the back of my car on a cold winter day, often an icy or snowy one, and this year would be no different. But now that I had walked and driven the snowy, bombogenesed streets of home, which took a little more work than usual, that chore in the parking lot would seem less of a burden. A little fresh air will do that for you.
But a winter storm has its merits. I was thinking about that yesterday while warming up my car and knocking off the snow prior to a trip downtown. I could have mailed in my auto registration fee, but what fun would that be? Instead, I was multitasking: clearing my car and moving it off the street, getting some fresh air, saving the mail-in fee, beating the deadline, and, less prosaically, preparing to enjoy a walk in the snow.
People seemed to be driving cautiously, and I arrived downtown without incident, parking behind the old Carnegie Library. Gratz Park is pretty in any season, and swathed in snow, it looks like a Victorian Christmas card. On foot, I headed down Market Street, past the Gothic church with the pretty little hedge garden, and turned left on Short. I walked past the little clock shop, which doubles as a magic and novelties emporium, and encountered a parking lot attendant shoveling snow. I found myself in a wind tunnel, with icy air whipping around the buildings and hitting me head-on, the Lexington mini-version of Chicago. I was now thinking less about fresh air and more about getting warm and actually jogged around a slower moving pedestrian near the courthouse.
After a brief stop to warm my hands and get cash for the County Clerk's office, I was out again in a white world of big, swirling flakes. I was by no means the only person out; walking, while requiring more energy than usual, was not especially hazardous--just cold. Once inside the Clerk's office, I saw that my calculation had paid off and that the line for auto registration had only a few people. Waiting for my turn gave me a chance to warm up again. A few minutes later, new sticker in hand, I glided back into the snowstorm, doing my own version of the Waltz of the Snowflakes, minus the toe shoes and a little of the grace.
The park in front of the main library, on warm days, is full of people lounging; there was none of that yesterday, as anyone who was out was moving with purpose. I noticed the construction zone across from the park before I slipped across Main Street, sallied past the courthouse, and turned left. After seeing my reflection in a store window and deciding that I could pass for an extra in either Doctor Zhivago or The Snow Queen, I stopped under an overhang to brush off snow and stamp around a little. Pressing on, I turned right on a quiet, pedestrian-free Upper Street and enjoyed the fact that I was out of the wind.
Along the little street next to the church, past the brick wall and the perfume shop, and there was Market Street once again. I took a minute to notice the stateliness of the Carnegie Library as seen from the front, solid and elegant amid bare trees and snow, and reflected that if I were a visitor, I would be exclaiming over the loveliness of this town. What's commonplace often fails to impress because it's so familiar, but catch it from the corner of your eye, or from a different angle, or with the context slightly altered, and you see it anew. If I had been hoping for a moment of beauty on my little walk, this was it.
I glissaded the rest of the way to my parking spot thinking about the fact that I'm (unavoidably) always affixing a new license plate or sticker to the back of my car on a cold winter day, often an icy or snowy one, and this year would be no different. But now that I had walked and driven the snowy, bombogenesed streets of home, which took a little more work than usual, that chore in the parking lot would seem less of a burden. A little fresh air will do that for you.
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
A Walk in Chicago
I was in Chicago for a few days last week. As often happens in an unfamiliar place, I was tired and a bit overwhelmed the first day. Downtown Chicago is an extremely energetic environment, and it took me a day to get in synch with it.
A lunchtime walk to the Newberry Library on the second day allowed me to get my feet under me. My natural love of walking kicked in, I enjoyed finding my way to the Library (and seeing the inside of it), and the skyscrapers and busy streets that had seemed daunting the night before started to seem exciting and intriguing instead. There was a lot to see.
My last night in town we had a conference dinner, which ended early. I started walking back toward my hotel, but it seemed too early to just go to my room and brush my teeth. I decided instead to walk toward Navy Pier. I was enjoying the views of the skyscrapers lit up against the dusk and the Friday night exuberance in the air. I knew if I kept walking I would come to the waterfront, so I tried to maintain a straight course while staying on well-populated streets.
I eventually came to Lakeshore Drive and was faced with an underpass I hesitated to use. While hesitating, I saw groups of people crossing it from the other side, so I made my way down to it from the street level and ventured forth. Navy Pier, on the other side, was awash with people as I strolled past. I wondered if I should try to get to Millennium Park or if I was going to get caught in the rain.
I asked two women emerging from the park near Navy Pier how close I was to Millennium Park. I walked along with them for a while as we discussed the best way to get there. As it turned out, it was a little late for Millennium Park by then, and I had conveniently but unintentionally (because of the lake shore) walked in a sort of circle so that I was not far from my hotel. By that time my feet were tired, and I had satisfied my impulse for a walk, so I called it a night.
Every place has its own presiding genius, its local gods. I don't know Chicago well enough to say what its gods are. I was downtown, and that's different from other parts of the city I've seen before. I saw glittering towers, groups of revelers out on the town, and beautiful window displays of artfully arranged housewares and home decor. I saw a man playing a saxophone in front of the AT&T store. I saw a homeless family huddled in a doorway. I saw many tourists in a crowded Navy Pier arcade, a glimpse of the lake at nightfall, a young man taking a break in the cavelike service area of a large hotel, a doctor leaning against the reception desk inside Northwestern Hospital, and a pair of young men posing proudly for a picture in front of an underpass mural.
I navigated by prior knowledge of the map, attention to the presence of others, the advice of guides, and my own intentions. I'm glad I followed my hunch that it was too early to go to bed. During the day, Chicago is busy, directed, and purposeful. It gave me a fuller sense of things to experience a more festive but still multi-faceted city as it wound down into evening.
A lunchtime walk to the Newberry Library on the second day allowed me to get my feet under me. My natural love of walking kicked in, I enjoyed finding my way to the Library (and seeing the inside of it), and the skyscrapers and busy streets that had seemed daunting the night before started to seem exciting and intriguing instead. There was a lot to see.
My last night in town we had a conference dinner, which ended early. I started walking back toward my hotel, but it seemed too early to just go to my room and brush my teeth. I decided instead to walk toward Navy Pier. I was enjoying the views of the skyscrapers lit up against the dusk and the Friday night exuberance in the air. I knew if I kept walking I would come to the waterfront, so I tried to maintain a straight course while staying on well-populated streets.
I eventually came to Lakeshore Drive and was faced with an underpass I hesitated to use. While hesitating, I saw groups of people crossing it from the other side, so I made my way down to it from the street level and ventured forth. Navy Pier, on the other side, was awash with people as I strolled past. I wondered if I should try to get to Millennium Park or if I was going to get caught in the rain.
I asked two women emerging from the park near Navy Pier how close I was to Millennium Park. I walked along with them for a while as we discussed the best way to get there. As it turned out, it was a little late for Millennium Park by then, and I had conveniently but unintentionally (because of the lake shore) walked in a sort of circle so that I was not far from my hotel. By that time my feet were tired, and I had satisfied my impulse for a walk, so I called it a night.
Every place has its own presiding genius, its local gods. I don't know Chicago well enough to say what its gods are. I was downtown, and that's different from other parts of the city I've seen before. I saw glittering towers, groups of revelers out on the town, and beautiful window displays of artfully arranged housewares and home decor. I saw a man playing a saxophone in front of the AT&T store. I saw a homeless family huddled in a doorway. I saw many tourists in a crowded Navy Pier arcade, a glimpse of the lake at nightfall, a young man taking a break in the cavelike service area of a large hotel, a doctor leaning against the reception desk inside Northwestern Hospital, and a pair of young men posing proudly for a picture in front of an underpass mural.
I navigated by prior knowledge of the map, attention to the presence of others, the advice of guides, and my own intentions. I'm glad I followed my hunch that it was too early to go to bed. During the day, Chicago is busy, directed, and purposeful. It gave me a fuller sense of things to experience a more festive but still multi-faceted city as it wound down into evening.
Friday, June 21, 2013
A Path, a Compass, a Map
I guess it isn't surprising how often I end up writing about walking, since I do a lot of walking. It's even sort of a professional interest, because of labyrinths. But I read a book this week that doesn't seem to be about either labyrinths or walking, in the everyday sense of walking. I meant to read Cheryl Strayed's Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail last year, when it came out, but I got sidetracked. It's probably just as well, since it means more to me now than it would have a year ago.
Truth is sometimes stranger than fiction, and the events of an actual life a thousand times more compelling than the best-crafted novel ever written. Such is Wild, a memoir of a woman's solo hike along the Pacific Crest Trail, undertaken in sort of a desperate, intuitive belief that something good would come out of it. As Miss Strayed tells it, she was in a Midwestern outdoor store buying a shovel when she picked up a guidebook for walkers of the PCT. She glanced at the book, then put it back, but something about the cover image of mountains and sky spoke to her mysteriously, and while driving to her home in Minneapolis, she was captured by the idea of hiking the trail herself.
It was a somewhat unexpected decision for someone who had never gone backpacking. But at the age of 26, battered by the loss of her mother to cancer, the breakup of her family, a marriage that had come unglued, an unexpected pregnancy, and a mounting sense of turmoil and emptiness, Strayed undertook the journey in a bid to find answers or least have a chance to think things through. As frequently happens, the reality was very different than what she had imagined.
As a novice hiker, Strayed had little idea of how to properly pack and ended up carrying a load that felt like "a Volkswagen Beetle" on her back. Men she met on the trail had trouble even picking up her pack, much less understanding how she managed to walk with it. Her hiking boots blistered her feet and rubbed them raw, a problem that persisted throughout the trip. She had little money, and despite the carefully chosen protein bars and dehydrated food, was always hungry. She learned to use a compass along the way, crossed rockslides and ice fields, edged around rattlesnakes, encountered bears, mastered the intricacies of a wayward water purifier, slept alone in a tent, worried about mountain lions, and occasionally sang to herself.
She had imagined walking along in soothing solitude, breathing in deeply and letting the beauty of the passing scenery heal the broken places. What actually happened was that pushing through the difficulties -- the skin lacerations, the pain, the hunger and thirst, the fears, the dangers, and the mistakes -- healed her. She discovered that she could stand on her own two feet by continuing to put one in front of the other, and the beauty of the wilderness, experienced at unexpected moments in bursts of clarity, was that much sweeter for being attained so dearly.
There are many ways to interpret the story. In one way, it's a tale about learning to mother (and father) oneself. It's also a hero's journey, one that ends with the book itself, the author's "boon" to the rest of us. While it might not be apparent, the PCT, though linear on a map, is experienced as a maze in which choices must often be made. No two hikers ever experience the trail the same way. As Miss Strayed herself seems to invoke Dante early on when she speaks of feeling lost in the woods of her life, I have to tell you that I thought of The Divine Comedy often while reading this story. Like Dante the pilgrim, Miss Strayed found that, paradoxically, the only way out of the woods was the long way, the via dolorosa, through the Inferno.
The author is candid about her struggles and shortcomings and the naivete with which she began her journey. It's borne in upon the reader that it was sheer determination (and luck) that saw her through. There was every possibility for things to end in disaster. Still, events demonstrate that her intuition to undertake a difficult task to find her measure was a good one. I'm tempted to report that, like Ginger Rogers, Miss Strayed did everything a man could do, except backwards and in heels, but that's not really true, except that it is, sort of. Unlike Dante, she didn't have a Virgil constantly beside her in the tough bits, unless you count the guidebooks she carried. She found mentors along the way, but it was up to her to separate the wheat from the chaff and decide for herself what kind of trip it would be.
I doubt that I would ever hike the PCT on my own, but I recognize the impulse that led the author to do it, and I admire it. There are some things you just have to figure out for yourself. I started the book with tears at the descriptions of Miss Strayed's early sorrows and losses and ended it with tears of a different kind, and that's never a bad way to end a story.
Truth is sometimes stranger than fiction, and the events of an actual life a thousand times more compelling than the best-crafted novel ever written. Such is Wild, a memoir of a woman's solo hike along the Pacific Crest Trail, undertaken in sort of a desperate, intuitive belief that something good would come out of it. As Miss Strayed tells it, she was in a Midwestern outdoor store buying a shovel when she picked up a guidebook for walkers of the PCT. She glanced at the book, then put it back, but something about the cover image of mountains and sky spoke to her mysteriously, and while driving to her home in Minneapolis, she was captured by the idea of hiking the trail herself.
It was a somewhat unexpected decision for someone who had never gone backpacking. But at the age of 26, battered by the loss of her mother to cancer, the breakup of her family, a marriage that had come unglued, an unexpected pregnancy, and a mounting sense of turmoil and emptiness, Strayed undertook the journey in a bid to find answers or least have a chance to think things through. As frequently happens, the reality was very different than what she had imagined.
As a novice hiker, Strayed had little idea of how to properly pack and ended up carrying a load that felt like "a Volkswagen Beetle" on her back. Men she met on the trail had trouble even picking up her pack, much less understanding how she managed to walk with it. Her hiking boots blistered her feet and rubbed them raw, a problem that persisted throughout the trip. She had little money, and despite the carefully chosen protein bars and dehydrated food, was always hungry. She learned to use a compass along the way, crossed rockslides and ice fields, edged around rattlesnakes, encountered bears, mastered the intricacies of a wayward water purifier, slept alone in a tent, worried about mountain lions, and occasionally sang to herself.
She had imagined walking along in soothing solitude, breathing in deeply and letting the beauty of the passing scenery heal the broken places. What actually happened was that pushing through the difficulties -- the skin lacerations, the pain, the hunger and thirst, the fears, the dangers, and the mistakes -- healed her. She discovered that she could stand on her own two feet by continuing to put one in front of the other, and the beauty of the wilderness, experienced at unexpected moments in bursts of clarity, was that much sweeter for being attained so dearly.
There are many ways to interpret the story. In one way, it's a tale about learning to mother (and father) oneself. It's also a hero's journey, one that ends with the book itself, the author's "boon" to the rest of us. While it might not be apparent, the PCT, though linear on a map, is experienced as a maze in which choices must often be made. No two hikers ever experience the trail the same way. As Miss Strayed herself seems to invoke Dante early on when she speaks of feeling lost in the woods of her life, I have to tell you that I thought of The Divine Comedy often while reading this story. Like Dante the pilgrim, Miss Strayed found that, paradoxically, the only way out of the woods was the long way, the via dolorosa, through the Inferno.
The author is candid about her struggles and shortcomings and the naivete with which she began her journey. It's borne in upon the reader that it was sheer determination (and luck) that saw her through. There was every possibility for things to end in disaster. Still, events demonstrate that her intuition to undertake a difficult task to find her measure was a good one. I'm tempted to report that, like Ginger Rogers, Miss Strayed did everything a man could do, except backwards and in heels, but that's not really true, except that it is, sort of. Unlike Dante, she didn't have a Virgil constantly beside her in the tough bits, unless you count the guidebooks she carried. She found mentors along the way, but it was up to her to separate the wheat from the chaff and decide for herself what kind of trip it would be.
I doubt that I would ever hike the PCT on my own, but I recognize the impulse that led the author to do it, and I admire it. There are some things you just have to figure out for yourself. I started the book with tears at the descriptions of Miss Strayed's early sorrows and losses and ended it with tears of a different kind, and that's never a bad way to end a story.
Monday, May 6, 2013
Lessons on Walking in Rain
A rainy spell has set in after several days of beautiful weather. I stayed in on Saturday, but yesterday I decided that even if it was raining, I wanted to get out of the apartment, so I put on my rain gear and walked to Starbucks, a distance of about two miles. I was wearing my stylish Red Riding Hood raincoat and had my polka dot umbrella, but this was one of those cold, steady rains with occasional gusts that eventually gets every inch of you wet. I had to stop and arrange my purse underneath my coat and try to keep my book tote underneath the umbrella.
I was only halfway there when I realized how soaked my sneakers were and realized I'd have to put up with wet feet once I arrived. Wet shoes or not, I thought, it was worth it to spend a couple of hours away from the apartment on this rainy weekend, so I pushed on. I wouldn't have given much thought to a trip to Starbucks if I'd had my car, but on the other hand, I wouldn't have been getting all this lovely walking in, right? I'm all for walking in all kinds of weather but admit I would have been happier with dry feet. Nonetheless, I did take time to notice a pretty dogwood tree in someone's yard and how green the grass was over by the campus library.
Once I got to Starbucks, I discovered that everyone else had had the same idea. There were no tables open, although there were a few extra chairs, so I took one of those and waited for someone to leave. After a while, someone did, so I spread out my things to dry off a little and settled down to read.
On the way home, the sky was beginning to clear a little, and I caught some gleams of light from the sun sinking in the west. I was glad to be out then, because the light was really beautiful, reflecting off all those wet surfaces with a sort of subdued dazzle, and everything seemed very clean and fresh with that just-washed feeling. And I knew it would feel great to get home, pull off my wet shoes, and get dinner ready.
Today started out partly cloudy, and by the time I realized I needed to go to the post office this afternoon, there were actual patches of blue sky on display, with big, puffy, summery-looking clouds playing hide and seek with the sun. In a burst of optimism, I set out without an umbrella, looking forward to a walk unencumbered by purse, coat, or any other paraphernalia.
After I'd been walking for a few minutes, I noticed that the dark clouds I thought were heading in the other direction were actually starting to mass overhead. I have had pretty good luck with judging whether I'm going to get rained on or not in the past; I thought today I might get some sprinkles but just wanted to get my letter in the box before it got wet. I figured the rest didn't matter so much. I made it to the mailbox and had started back home when I felt the first drop on my hand. At first I thought it might have been a stray one, but a block later, walking out from under the trees, I could see a light rain descending in straight lines.
It felt strange to be walking in the rain without an umbrella. On the other hand, my sweater didn't seem to be getting that wet. My hair was still damp from my shower when I started out, so it couldn't be much worse off now. The rain slackened a little, but as I crossed the stadium parking lot and headed for home, it started coming down harder. My sunglasses, donned in that spirit of optimism at the beginning of the trip, were covered with rain, and my backup sneakers, called into duty because my other shoes were still drying out, were now starting to get soaked, too. I thought about making a run for it, wondered if it's really true that you get wetter when you run, and considered how feasible it would be to sprint while trying to see through rivulets of rain on my glasses.
Once on my street, I was basically at the drowned rat stage. I knew I would be out of my wet things in a couple of minutes and cozy enough once I put on my slippers and a dry sweater. There wasn't much to be gained by making a dash for it at that point -- but you know what? I decided to, anyway. I'd had the impulse to run a few minutes earlier, partly for the sheer exhilaration of running in the rain, and I'd quashed it. I sprinted the last half block just for the fun of it and to feel like a kid again, unencumbered by a purse or a shopping bag or any other detritus of adult life. And actually, it was kind of wonderful.
So here, take that, you rainy day. Maybe I left my umbrella behind for a reason, after all.
Monday, April 29, 2013
The Adventure of the Bubble Smoothie
Getting my car fixed has turned out to be much more of an adventure than I've ever had with this kind of thing before. The other driver's insurance company, Kentucky Farm Bureau, was willing to put me in a rental car but not to proceed with my car repair until their insured gave a statement (to my knowledge, he has yet to do so). I took the rental car, but that ended up being another sideshow since I forgot I needed to have a temporary parking tag for it. It ended up getting towed, and I had to spend $90 to get it back.
After that, I decided to forgo the rental car altogether and have been walking everywhere -- to the store, to Starbucks, to the library, and today, to my insurance company to get the settlement form notarized. Farm Bureau wanted to total my car, but the shop had a lower estimate, and since they had worked on my car before, I trusted their judgment and came to an agreement with the insurance company. I decided then to pay something down so the body shop could start on the repairs. After a bus ride downtown, I walked a mile to the shop under a gray sky that threatened rain but didn't deliver any.
It was a bit cumbersome having to take care of all that business on foot, but the upside was that on the way to the body shop, I walked along a stretch of beautiful historical houses that I had only seen before while driving. The walk gave me a chance to savor the architecture without having to keep my eyes on the road. The next part of it was a bit more wild and woolly, as I had to cross a wide viaduct with both traffic above and a train rumbling below. There was a sidewalk, so I was pretty safe, but the sensation reminded me of the time I was in Minneapolis and had to cross a bridge over a heavily traveled, multi-lane interstate to reach a park I wanted to visit. It was a bit like crossing a pit full of alligators all standing at the bottom shaking the support posts for all they're worth. They probably can't hurt you, but the vibration is rather unnerving.
The viaduct was curved, kind of like one of those wooden bridges in a Japanese garden (though not nearly as picturesque), and the body shop was just on the other side. I went in, took advantage of the candy jar in the reception area while waiting, wrote my check, and came back out to face the walk home. I crossed over the viaduct, which seemed less daunting on the way back, got a second look at the historic houses, and headed home, thinking of dinner.
I really was ready for home by then, but for some reason, as I was passing a row of shotgun houses I had passed countless times when I worked downtown (usually in a car), I noticed a sign in front of one advertising books/gifts/bubble drinks and smoothies. Something about the flair of the sign and the eclectic mix of offerings was too much for my curiosity. I had been meaning to see what was inside this place for quite a while. Why not now? I pushed open the door and found myself in a cozy shop lined with cases of used books and decorated with craft items of all kinds, complete with a couch and a small cafe in the back where you could buy bubble drinks.
I'm nothing if not flexible: I decided I was due a treat. There were so many intriguing flavors that it would have been hard to go wrong, but I decided on an almond smoothie with vanilla bubbles. If you've never had a bubble drink, it's hard to describe it, but imagine tapioca pearls at the bottom of the drink and a big straw that lets you sip them up from the bottom. I had my drink, which tasted like amaretto, sat on the couch with the palm tree cushions, admired a book-lined room, and regrouped a little.
It's always interesting to me how you can open a single door and find yourself in a place you've never been before, and the fact that this can happen on an ordinary street that you've traveled many thousands of times makes it even more delightful. Popping into the shop was a little like popping into Alice's rabbit hole just in time for the tea party. It also demonstrated that even a tedious day is not without its pleasant surprises. If my car had not been in the garage and I had not been on foot, I might never have discovered this little shop.
Cars are wonderful for covering a lot of distance, but by nature we're walkers, and I'm not sure we're always aware of how much we miss by zooming by things. It's like what Robert Pirsig said in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance about everything looking like TV through the windows of a car. I'll be happy to get my car back, but there's something to be said for slowing down and taking a closer look at the familiar. You never know what you'll find there.
After that, I decided to forgo the rental car altogether and have been walking everywhere -- to the store, to Starbucks, to the library, and today, to my insurance company to get the settlement form notarized. Farm Bureau wanted to total my car, but the shop had a lower estimate, and since they had worked on my car before, I trusted their judgment and came to an agreement with the insurance company. I decided then to pay something down so the body shop could start on the repairs. After a bus ride downtown, I walked a mile to the shop under a gray sky that threatened rain but didn't deliver any.
It was a bit cumbersome having to take care of all that business on foot, but the upside was that on the way to the body shop, I walked along a stretch of beautiful historical houses that I had only seen before while driving. The walk gave me a chance to savor the architecture without having to keep my eyes on the road. The next part of it was a bit more wild and woolly, as I had to cross a wide viaduct with both traffic above and a train rumbling below. There was a sidewalk, so I was pretty safe, but the sensation reminded me of the time I was in Minneapolis and had to cross a bridge over a heavily traveled, multi-lane interstate to reach a park I wanted to visit. It was a bit like crossing a pit full of alligators all standing at the bottom shaking the support posts for all they're worth. They probably can't hurt you, but the vibration is rather unnerving.
The viaduct was curved, kind of like one of those wooden bridges in a Japanese garden (though not nearly as picturesque), and the body shop was just on the other side. I went in, took advantage of the candy jar in the reception area while waiting, wrote my check, and came back out to face the walk home. I crossed over the viaduct, which seemed less daunting on the way back, got a second look at the historic houses, and headed home, thinking of dinner.
I really was ready for home by then, but for some reason, as I was passing a row of shotgun houses I had passed countless times when I worked downtown (usually in a car), I noticed a sign in front of one advertising books/gifts/bubble drinks and smoothies. Something about the flair of the sign and the eclectic mix of offerings was too much for my curiosity. I had been meaning to see what was inside this place for quite a while. Why not now? I pushed open the door and found myself in a cozy shop lined with cases of used books and decorated with craft items of all kinds, complete with a couch and a small cafe in the back where you could buy bubble drinks.
I'm nothing if not flexible: I decided I was due a treat. There were so many intriguing flavors that it would have been hard to go wrong, but I decided on an almond smoothie with vanilla bubbles. If you've never had a bubble drink, it's hard to describe it, but imagine tapioca pearls at the bottom of the drink and a big straw that lets you sip them up from the bottom. I had my drink, which tasted like amaretto, sat on the couch with the palm tree cushions, admired a book-lined room, and regrouped a little.
It's always interesting to me how you can open a single door and find yourself in a place you've never been before, and the fact that this can happen on an ordinary street that you've traveled many thousands of times makes it even more delightful. Popping into the shop was a little like popping into Alice's rabbit hole just in time for the tea party. It also demonstrated that even a tedious day is not without its pleasant surprises. If my car had not been in the garage and I had not been on foot, I might never have discovered this little shop.
Cars are wonderful for covering a lot of distance, but by nature we're walkers, and I'm not sure we're always aware of how much we miss by zooming by things. It's like what Robert Pirsig said in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance about everything looking like TV through the windows of a car. I'll be happy to get my car back, but there's something to be said for slowing down and taking a closer look at the familiar. You never know what you'll find there.
Sunday, April 7, 2013
The Mountain Is High, The Valley Is Low
We've been mourning and remembering a friend we lost this week to cancer. I had known him since the '80s; he was the partner of a long-time friend of mine. I can't remember exactly the first time I met him, but I think it was here in Lexington when my friend was visiting and brought him along. Since that long-ago day, I've had many visits with the two of them, both here and in the various places they've lived together.
We all enjoyed walking, talking, and eating, and spent a lot of hours in those pursuits when we were together. It isn't often you come across people that you feel that in tune with, and our conversations were always wide-ranging -- anything from philosophy to the right way to make an omelet to urban planning (sometimes all in the same chat). It's hard to say goodbye to someone you've hashed over the meaning of life with, especially someone as gentle and kind as Jot was.
On the day of his cremation, I came up with an impromptu memorial service to try to honor him in a manner I thought he would approve of. It started with playing the song "Everett Ruess," which I know he loved, and which could almost have been written about him: he had much in common with that other artist, dreamer, and free spirit. I went to my book shelf and found Thich Nhat Hanh's Old Path White Clouds, a life of Buddha. I decided to open it at random and read the first thing I saw, which turned out to be the Buddha's explanation of the Four Noble Truths. I kept going back and pulling other books from various traditions off the shelf, sometimes seeking out remembered passages and other times just skimming the pages for inspiration. Sacred chants, philosophical passages, poetry, music, readings from the Bible . . . by the time I'd finished, two hours had passed. I think Jot would have liked most of it.
In the midst of all the sorrow, I've been thinking about what a remarkable, irreplaceable thing a human soul is. Life and death are a great mystery to us all, but it seems to me a waste for the world to give rise to such a beautiful thing as a human spirit, only to take it back into a void. I want to believe that the spirit lives on somehow, in a way we don't completely understand, and I hope that is the case.
One of my most vivid memories of Jot is of the day he and I went for a long, long walk in San Francisco's Bernal Heights. I was big on printing out walking tours from the Internet and enlisting my friends to go along with me when I was visiting. On this particular March day, several years ago, it was just Jot and me. It was sunny and warm, almost hot; I had to roll up my sleeves as the day progressed. It was an ambitious walk, up some pretty steep hills, and the directions weren't all that easy to follow, which meant a lot of deciphering and backtracking.
Fueled by pastries and coffee, we had set off to conquer the Heights, not quite realizing how long a walk it was. It was off the beaten track, not involving any famous sights or tourist attractions, just a lot of houses, staircases, hidden paths, public gardens, and confusing streets. It was very maze-like but rather pleasant. We'd get hot and out of breath, rest a little, and then move on. There was no rush and nothing in particular we were trying to achieve other than finishing the walk. I remember seeing a small snake in a garden at the top of the hill, crossing paths with a mailman multiple times as he went on his neighborhood rounds (probably shaking his head at us), stopping often to consult the map, sweating, and, at last, admiring the view from a park at the top.
Jot took my picture up there, with the Golden Gate Bridge visible behind me, way off in the distance. It remains one of my favorite photos of myself and somehow captured what I think of as my best, true self -- smiling, adventurous, and quite present in the moment. On the way down the hill, we came across a small playground, and Jot took another picture as I was coming down the slide. I look sort of silly, but it was that kind of a day.
After a three-hour walk, we were feeling pretty pleased with ourselves. I said jokingly to Jot that since we had been to the top of the mountain, people were going to ask us what wisdom we had gained while we were up there, and we'd better think of something to say. He seemed doubtful at first, then thought about it for a minute and said, "The mountain is high, the valley is low." Then he chuckled.
Well, there's no arguing with that. And that kind of encapsulates Jot, a person who was willing to climb steep hills just for the fun of it, find joy in simple things like a modest wildflower or a meandering conversation, and then poke fun at himself at the end of the day. I didn't realize at the time what an enduring memory that day would become, but when I think back on it, how free and easy it all was, and how bright the sun was shining, I'm grateful for the impulse that led us to climb that hill just for the heck of it. And for a companion who never questioned the value of so much walking with no particular place to go.
We all enjoyed walking, talking, and eating, and spent a lot of hours in those pursuits when we were together. It isn't often you come across people that you feel that in tune with, and our conversations were always wide-ranging -- anything from philosophy to the right way to make an omelet to urban planning (sometimes all in the same chat). It's hard to say goodbye to someone you've hashed over the meaning of life with, especially someone as gentle and kind as Jot was.
On the day of his cremation, I came up with an impromptu memorial service to try to honor him in a manner I thought he would approve of. It started with playing the song "Everett Ruess," which I know he loved, and which could almost have been written about him: he had much in common with that other artist, dreamer, and free spirit. I went to my book shelf and found Thich Nhat Hanh's Old Path White Clouds, a life of Buddha. I decided to open it at random and read the first thing I saw, which turned out to be the Buddha's explanation of the Four Noble Truths. I kept going back and pulling other books from various traditions off the shelf, sometimes seeking out remembered passages and other times just skimming the pages for inspiration. Sacred chants, philosophical passages, poetry, music, readings from the Bible . . . by the time I'd finished, two hours had passed. I think Jot would have liked most of it.
In the midst of all the sorrow, I've been thinking about what a remarkable, irreplaceable thing a human soul is. Life and death are a great mystery to us all, but it seems to me a waste for the world to give rise to such a beautiful thing as a human spirit, only to take it back into a void. I want to believe that the spirit lives on somehow, in a way we don't completely understand, and I hope that is the case.
One of my most vivid memories of Jot is of the day he and I went for a long, long walk in San Francisco's Bernal Heights. I was big on printing out walking tours from the Internet and enlisting my friends to go along with me when I was visiting. On this particular March day, several years ago, it was just Jot and me. It was sunny and warm, almost hot; I had to roll up my sleeves as the day progressed. It was an ambitious walk, up some pretty steep hills, and the directions weren't all that easy to follow, which meant a lot of deciphering and backtracking.
Fueled by pastries and coffee, we had set off to conquer the Heights, not quite realizing how long a walk it was. It was off the beaten track, not involving any famous sights or tourist attractions, just a lot of houses, staircases, hidden paths, public gardens, and confusing streets. It was very maze-like but rather pleasant. We'd get hot and out of breath, rest a little, and then move on. There was no rush and nothing in particular we were trying to achieve other than finishing the walk. I remember seeing a small snake in a garden at the top of the hill, crossing paths with a mailman multiple times as he went on his neighborhood rounds (probably shaking his head at us), stopping often to consult the map, sweating, and, at last, admiring the view from a park at the top.
Jot took my picture up there, with the Golden Gate Bridge visible behind me, way off in the distance. It remains one of my favorite photos of myself and somehow captured what I think of as my best, true self -- smiling, adventurous, and quite present in the moment. On the way down the hill, we came across a small playground, and Jot took another picture as I was coming down the slide. I look sort of silly, but it was that kind of a day.
After a three-hour walk, we were feeling pretty pleased with ourselves. I said jokingly to Jot that since we had been to the top of the mountain, people were going to ask us what wisdom we had gained while we were up there, and we'd better think of something to say. He seemed doubtful at first, then thought about it for a minute and said, "The mountain is high, the valley is low." Then he chuckled.
Well, there's no arguing with that. And that kind of encapsulates Jot, a person who was willing to climb steep hills just for the fun of it, find joy in simple things like a modest wildflower or a meandering conversation, and then poke fun at himself at the end of the day. I didn't realize at the time what an enduring memory that day would become, but when I think back on it, how free and easy it all was, and how bright the sun was shining, I'm grateful for the impulse that led us to climb that hill just for the heck of it. And for a companion who never questioned the value of so much walking with no particular place to go.
Friday, March 1, 2013
The New Hysteria
It used to be that going for a walk or spending a couple of hours at Starbucks was a routine undertaking. No more! The best way I know to describe it is to say that there just seem to be a lot more people -- everywhere. It's like the worst-case scenario of how overpopulation might someday force us to live.
Take yesterday, for instance: an ordinary, damp Thursday, the last day of February. I wrapped myself up in coat, hat, scarf, and gloves, and for a change of pace, took a ramble through the neighborhood instead of the park. Since it was mid-afternoon, gray and chilly, I figured I'd have the streets to myself. It's a pleasant neighborhood for walking, bounded on one side by a wooded area and filled with an eclectic group of mid-century homes. There's generally not a lot of traffic, just birds, stately trees, and quiet houses.
But what had gotten into everybody yesterday? As I cut through the hospital's back parking lot and headed up the first hill, there was a whole procession of cars climbing the rise with me. As I turned left onto the next street and descended a gentle knoll, I continued to see traffic, and it only increased the farther I went. I had to look at my watch a couple of times, wondering if I had mistaken the time. Normally, traffic picks up on these back streets at 4:30 or so, and it was well before then. I couldn't imagine what so many people were doing in such a quiet residential area in the middle of the day. It was like a full-fledged passeggiata, but with cars instead of people.
I can't count the number of times I've been walking in the Arboretum lately and had to stop and wait for someone carrying on a loud conversation to go on past. One of the pleasures of walking in the park is to enjoy the birds singing, listen to the wind in the trees, and hear yourself think -- or so it used to be. It wouldn't be so bad if people didn't seem so aggressively determined to share what they have to say. I was recently on the path behind the garden, strolling toward the bridge over the hollow place, when I heard a young woman coming up behind me yelling breathlessly into her phone, "And then, I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT TO DO!" I had to step off the path, contemplate the trees, and count to thirty until she was out of sight. Another day, I had to sit on a bench and pretend to be tying my shoe while another woman, who seemed determined not to pass me no matter how slowly I walked, carried on an energetic conversation about blood thinners. I sat and soaked up the sun until she disappeared.
Then there's the local Starbucks. I've spent many hours there, studying, reading, or writing, and it used to be that you expected it to be busy only on Saturdays and Sundays. The crowd is usually a combination of regulars, students, and people from the neighborhood, which is a fairly mixed demographic. Lately, however, it has taken on more the frenzied atmosphere of a cocktail party at full tilt rather than the cafe feeling of days past, complete with ear-splitting conversation, immoderate laughter, and people who seem desperate to engage your attention. You almost have the impression that Andy Warhol is going to show up any minute. Or Truman Capote. Someone like that.
I'm not dogging myself. For a middle-aged girl, I've held up pretty well. But when I tussle my MacBook, power cord, and iced coffee into the only available seat to find myself nose to nose with a stranger looking like a slightly creepy version of Michael Fassbender in Jane Eyre, who apparently has nothing to do but send come-hither signals . . . well, I just start to wonder, that's all. You just don't meet Mr. Rochester in Starbucks (or in elevators or concert crowds either; he's a fictional character).
The next time I sat in that corner, I kept noticing a young woman in an adjacent chair, playing with her hair and staring at me. In both cases, it was just too, well, weird, and I had to get up and move.
On another occasion, I had to endure the carrying voice of a local radio personality who had apparently decided to call everyone he knew while waiting for a dinner companion. One of the rules of engagement seems to be that if someone is going to have a loud conversation, they'll have it directly across from me and make eye contact as often as possible. I notice that a number of people besides me still come into Starbucks with books and computers, and I can only surmise that they've been working mightily on their powers of concentration.
I'm not sure what's up with all these noisy, aggressive, in-your-face people, or why there seem to be so many of them. Maybe it's a form of temporary insanity. It's rather like being in a crowd of cawing, competing crows with bad manners and no concept of the indoor voice. I'm hoping the flock will suddenly take to the air and fly north for the summer . . . I believe there are plenty of wide open spaces in the Arctic. In the meantime, there are always ear plugs.
Take yesterday, for instance: an ordinary, damp Thursday, the last day of February. I wrapped myself up in coat, hat, scarf, and gloves, and for a change of pace, took a ramble through the neighborhood instead of the park. Since it was mid-afternoon, gray and chilly, I figured I'd have the streets to myself. It's a pleasant neighborhood for walking, bounded on one side by a wooded area and filled with an eclectic group of mid-century homes. There's generally not a lot of traffic, just birds, stately trees, and quiet houses.
But what had gotten into everybody yesterday? As I cut through the hospital's back parking lot and headed up the first hill, there was a whole procession of cars climbing the rise with me. As I turned left onto the next street and descended a gentle knoll, I continued to see traffic, and it only increased the farther I went. I had to look at my watch a couple of times, wondering if I had mistaken the time. Normally, traffic picks up on these back streets at 4:30 or so, and it was well before then. I couldn't imagine what so many people were doing in such a quiet residential area in the middle of the day. It was like a full-fledged passeggiata, but with cars instead of people.
I can't count the number of times I've been walking in the Arboretum lately and had to stop and wait for someone carrying on a loud conversation to go on past. One of the pleasures of walking in the park is to enjoy the birds singing, listen to the wind in the trees, and hear yourself think -- or so it used to be. It wouldn't be so bad if people didn't seem so aggressively determined to share what they have to say. I was recently on the path behind the garden, strolling toward the bridge over the hollow place, when I heard a young woman coming up behind me yelling breathlessly into her phone, "And then, I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT TO DO!" I had to step off the path, contemplate the trees, and count to thirty until she was out of sight. Another day, I had to sit on a bench and pretend to be tying my shoe while another woman, who seemed determined not to pass me no matter how slowly I walked, carried on an energetic conversation about blood thinners. I sat and soaked up the sun until she disappeared.
Then there's the local Starbucks. I've spent many hours there, studying, reading, or writing, and it used to be that you expected it to be busy only on Saturdays and Sundays. The crowd is usually a combination of regulars, students, and people from the neighborhood, which is a fairly mixed demographic. Lately, however, it has taken on more the frenzied atmosphere of a cocktail party at full tilt rather than the cafe feeling of days past, complete with ear-splitting conversation, immoderate laughter, and people who seem desperate to engage your attention. You almost have the impression that Andy Warhol is going to show up any minute. Or Truman Capote. Someone like that.
I'm not dogging myself. For a middle-aged girl, I've held up pretty well. But when I tussle my MacBook, power cord, and iced coffee into the only available seat to find myself nose to nose with a stranger looking like a slightly creepy version of Michael Fassbender in Jane Eyre, who apparently has nothing to do but send come-hither signals . . . well, I just start to wonder, that's all. You just don't meet Mr. Rochester in Starbucks (or in elevators or concert crowds either; he's a fictional character).
The next time I sat in that corner, I kept noticing a young woman in an adjacent chair, playing with her hair and staring at me. In both cases, it was just too, well, weird, and I had to get up and move.
On another occasion, I had to endure the carrying voice of a local radio personality who had apparently decided to call everyone he knew while waiting for a dinner companion. One of the rules of engagement seems to be that if someone is going to have a loud conversation, they'll have it directly across from me and make eye contact as often as possible. I notice that a number of people besides me still come into Starbucks with books and computers, and I can only surmise that they've been working mightily on their powers of concentration.
I'm not sure what's up with all these noisy, aggressive, in-your-face people, or why there seem to be so many of them. Maybe it's a form of temporary insanity. It's rather like being in a crowd of cawing, competing crows with bad manners and no concept of the indoor voice. I'm hoping the flock will suddenly take to the air and fly north for the summer . . . I believe there are plenty of wide open spaces in the Arctic. In the meantime, there are always ear plugs.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Solved by Walking
Today is August 22. I actually moved into my freshman dorm on Sunday, August 22, many years ago. (I remember this the same way I remember that full-time tuition was $242 that first semester.) I realized the significance of the date this afternoon when I was in the grocery store, pushing my cart past a lot of new college students who have just arrived in town. I wonder how many of them will do what I did and deliberately buy a different brand of laundry detergent than their mother used, just to prove how independent they are. Radicals!
There's been a lot of water under the bridge since that day, but at least I'm consistent -- I still use the same brand of detergent.
Fast forward a few decades to one year ago today. It was Saturday, August 22, and I was visiting St. Louis. Having just finished my last year of coursework in my doctoral program (four degrees later, different school), I was getting ready to walk a few labyrinths as an adjunct to all the book research I was facing. I thought of this as a fun way to enter the dissertation and balance the intellectual work on the labyrinth with an in-the-body experience. It seemed like a good idea to make the research experiential. I just didn't know how literal this would become, and that the whole trip would turn into a gigantic labyrinth.
I went into the first labyrinth on my agenda the next morning, a Sunday, when the grass was covered with a heavy dew, so that I literally got my feet wet. It was a turf labyrinth at a church just down the street from my hotel, and I was nursing an unexpected heartache from the night before along with sincere confusion about what I was doing there. So I did as the church's pamphlet suggested and asked myself that question as I was walking in. It was not pleasant; introspection is sometimes painful. However, it was probably at this point that walking labyrinths became something besides a game for me. I walked out a little later feeling like I might actually have touched something real.
There's been a lot of water under the bridge since that day, but at least I'm consistent -- I still use the same brand of detergent.
Fast forward a few decades to one year ago today. It was Saturday, August 22, and I was visiting St. Louis. Having just finished my last year of coursework in my doctoral program (four degrees later, different school), I was getting ready to walk a few labyrinths as an adjunct to all the book research I was facing. I thought of this as a fun way to enter the dissertation and balance the intellectual work on the labyrinth with an in-the-body experience. It seemed like a good idea to make the research experiential. I just didn't know how literal this would become, and that the whole trip would turn into a gigantic labyrinth.
I went into the first labyrinth on my agenda the next morning, a Sunday, when the grass was covered with a heavy dew, so that I literally got my feet wet. It was a turf labyrinth at a church just down the street from my hotel, and I was nursing an unexpected heartache from the night before along with sincere confusion about what I was doing there. So I did as the church's pamphlet suggested and asked myself that question as I was walking in. It was not pleasant; introspection is sometimes painful. However, it was probably at this point that walking labyrinths became something besides a game for me. I walked out a little later feeling like I might actually have touched something real.
Today I'm looking back on the winding road between that long-ago August 22, the first of my college career; August 22 of last year, my initiation into my dissertation; and today, August 22, 2010, when I did some writing for my dissertation, along with some more walking. There may be a glimmer of order in the chaos, if I'm not imagining it. I don't know where the road will go in a few years (or even a few hours). But I found this motto on a fountain near another labyrinth I walked that memorable weekend, one year ago. If I ever get a tattoo, maybe this should be on it. Solvitur ambulando: "It is solved by walking."
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