Walking Through Time

Thirty-one years ago, during the summer of 1984, I started walking 3-4 miles a day for fitness. A long family history of heart disease and diabetes motivated me to lace up my sneakers that first morning and head out into the early morning air. I walked along the streets of the small rural town I lived in at the time. Soon I found myself enjoying the quiet solitude before responsibilities and chores claimed my attention. Walking settled into my bones and stayed.

 

Today I walk in sunshine, rain, sleet, and snow. My limits are fever, icy conditions, and a wind chill or temperature of ten degrees or lower. I wish to avoid a nasty fall or frostbite. In a pinch or while traveling, I'll settle for a treadmill at the local gym but I know I won't see a deer nibbling grass in a pasture nor hear a chickadee calling to its mate nearby. I won't smell wet leaves or taste rain in my mouth.

 

Walking sustains my heart, mind, and spirit. Walking centers me and clears my head for the day. My thoughts loosen and float where they will, or I plan a writing project or a lesson plan or pray or sing a hymn to myself. I'm never bored. Walking tones my muscles, and it's the most natural thing in the world to do. I don't need lessons or a trainer or special equipment. Sturdy shoes with decent tread and thick socks are my biggest investments and necessities.

 

I've walked through presidential elections, the endless war on drugs and crime, my parents' deaths, a life threatening illness, break-ups, employment changes, successes and failures, and joys and disappointments. Walking never fails to soothe or comfort or refresh or celebrate life's happenings.   

 

The anticipation of experiencing something new within the familiar pushes me out the door every morning. Spring rains turn to summer's heat to autumn's russet leaves to winter's slush. Each season offers gifts and blessings for the senses.

 

I've encountered white-tailed deer and red foxes and chipmunks and squirrels and porcupines, each of us going about our business. I've watched ducks and geese and crows and blue jays honk, squawk, and fly overhead. This morning I discovered fresh moose tracks in the roadside's damp soil. I'm still not sure whether I'm elated or disappointed that the moose and I didn't cross paths. And that's the heart of walking: to observe the landscape for surprises, to know one tree intimately, or to love the sun's slant through one patch of forest like I love my husband's face in sunlight or shadow.

 

Each morning work and chores await, but for a little while it's simply the road and me. Someday, when I'm gone, I hope the ghosts of my footsteps will remain throughout time. 

Writing Remains My Calling Card

Earlier this year I applied for a modest grant in order to "further my writing career." I worked diligently to create thoughtful replies to the required questions listed within the application guidelines. I read drafts aloud to the cat, the refrigerator, and the spider plant living near a sunny window. Members of my writing group graciously provided constructive feedback. I revised, and then I submitted my application.

Today I received - via email - a polite rejection notice that I am not the chosen one for the award. The missive also reiterated several times: keep writing, keep trying, don't give up, you're creative, you're wonderful blah blah blah...finally I tapped the DELETE key. The timeworn platitudes seemed intended to encourage; I found them patronizing. A helpful comment I might consider for future grant applications would've been more welcome.

I've been published enough times to savor the sweetness of publication. The thrill when someone sees merit in my words warms me inside like hot ginger tea. Rejection stings like a bee: swiftly white-hot. After the pain passes, rejection can motivate or shut down my writing. I'm mindful of this when I provide students feedback on their speech or essay drafts.

My proven remedy is to take a brief break to play with patterns, textures, and colors through the art medium of assemblage. According to my American Heritage dictionary, assemblage is "an art work consisting of an arrangement of miscellaneous objects, such as pieces of metal, cloth, and string. While my ego is still smarting, I tend toward the quick and simple: scrapbooking paper, stickers, and images gleaned from magazines. Cutting and pasting and discerning a pattern and motif gives the rejection release. I'm ready to face the page again. After all, one editor's dandelion is another editor's rose.

Writers commit. We practice our craft. We read widely in a variety of genres. We learn from other writers' process and work. I learn from my students' mistakes and their successes. They learn from mine. I teach what I know, and I don't pretend to know everything. I mistrust writers who do. At the end of the day, all writers, whether we're published or not, award winners or not, understand that writing is still our calling card.

Summer Wanes

Summer is leaning toward autumn and the beginning of a new school year. Outside, the last of my Black-eyed Susans are blooming. Goldenrod and ragweed fill pastures and roadside ditches. Insects and crickets chirp in the grass, seeking mates. Gardens are rich with harvest.

Inside, I'm revising syllabi, planning class activities, and thumbing through new textbooks to get a feel for their weight and content in my hands. Next week I'll begin my 14th year of teaching at the college level. I'm excited about greeting new students and welcoming returning ones. This weekend they'll arrive on campus carrying hope in their hearts and sporting equipment, pens, notebooks, laptops, and thumb drives in their luggage. For many they're the first in their family to attend college. They want to make their parents proud. It's my job to help them do so, and I don't shrug off the challenge lightly. I've learned it's a privilege and honor to teach.

Therefore, I'm tucking away summer's memories for revisiting when winter's winds howl through the trees and snow ticks against the windows. I'm applying a fresh shine to my sense of humor, positive attitude, and checking the wattage of my smile. I'm buying new shoes. Attitude is everything.