Writer in the Mist

I have a dream of being a columnist, to write some commentary on life every day, a little bit Erma Bombeck, a little bit Anna Quindlen, although hopefully mainly me. And my Saturday blog is my once weekly foray into the experiment.

Often though, on Saturdays, I wake up feeling blank. I go on an expedition in my own mind, picking up ideas and tossing them down again. Especially after a stressful week, it is as if someone had ironed all the interesting wrinkles out of the cloth of life. I am on autopilot, and obey a robotic inner voice: Must work, must cook, must eat, must parent, must sleep, must make a list so I can get it all done, must do it all over again. I feel very musty after a week like this, and need airing out. I need a good long walk outdoors, a break in routine.

I think some of my confined feeling this week is from lack of fresh air, a quite literal mustiness. It has been raining, hard, for days. Is it true that Seattle is perpetually rainy? How do people cope? I wonder if it is more of a misty rain. If so, then I could live there. I know I would find other writers, and I love a good walk in the mist (although I have a punishing combination of Art Garfunkel and Groucho Marx hair the rest of the day).

Before the big rain started, Wednesday I think, I parked my car in Chester, and set off in my business clothes with incongruous blue Keds. Chester is an artsy town with historical houses and plenty of small windows on nature, a perfect blend for me. I walked past the marsh on the right side of a curvy road, dragging my pinstriped cuffs through the soggy grass when a car approached. Then up East Liberty, a great old hill with houses dating from the 1700s. When my heart rate topped out I panted past an aged cemetery, complete with picturesque tumbled stone wall and craggy trees, past the town meeting house, and down Wig Hill Road.

I always start out struggling with the I wants when I walk certain parts of Chester, Essex, or Deep River. I see big, historical houses and whine internally, why don't I have one of those? I covet my neighbor's house, as they say in the Ten Commandments. I used to beat myself up about this, then I realized that the houses look so orderly, so easy, and have come to symbolize the fantasy of an easy life for me. I know that if I moved in my stress would not magically disappear - no doubt the current occupants also struggle with clutter, chaos, and covets of their own. I do still envy that their neighborhoods are so perfect for walking. But I comfort myself with slightly sour grapes: I would not get to see this variety of Connecticut neighborhoods if I lived in one of those perfect places. I would walk the same loop every day, and probably get bored.

It was the kind of a mist that threatened to be more, but I felt silly when I tried the umbrella. I heard nothing coming down on it. Umbrella retired, I climbed toward Prospect Street, which would loop me back towards town. Flying flashes of red (both robins and cardinals) were frequent on this particular walk. I decided rain was good for worming, just like it is for fishing. I imagined small open beaks waiting in unseen nests.

The best part of a long walk alone is how the world falls away. Let me clarify: the artifices of the world fall away. I forget to think about what I covet, about obligations, about schedules. There is just the mist on my face, the memories (many of camping) that cool air evokes, glimpses into other lives (human and otherwise), and the physical release of heading downhill again. The varied rhythm of my shoes on sandy pavement, on gravel, the soundless breaks when I walk over sod become a song to replace that awful, robotic voice of stress.

That day, when I went to work after my 45-minute walk, I felt refreshed and renewed. And just recalling my misty walk this morning gave me a bit of renewal - not quite the real thing, but a good start to yet another rainy day.