Yesterday afternoon on the first day of fall, I took a long walk with my Boston terrier, Gilligan — a short, 3-hour tour one might say. The light the color of butter, the fields yellow and green, a sky full of blue, a tree turning red; a phenomenal sense of gratefulness for the richness of it all. I wanted to stop and sketch it, paint it, tweet it, tumble it, put a soundtrack to it; I kept struggling to hold it all, drink it in, clutch it to me. And then I just let go and moved through it, with it, along side it. I felt a part of it — I could be a cornfield, a milkweed, a cattail, a crow!
An hour ago we took our afternoon walk, and it was nothing like yesterday. Yes, there were purple asters and goldenrod; blue jays and heron’s; turtles and twisted trees; water ripples ringed in sun…but mostly it was like taking a 25 pound bee for a walk. I think Gilligan’s energy must have reflected something deep within me, as he shot off into a million fragmented directions, straining at his tether, trying to free himself, seeking something elusive, desperate to pick up the trail. I returned home with a sore arm, a general sense of relief that it was over, and a dog that managed to roll in something bath-worthy while I was pondering the changing skies.
Some walks are more peaceful than others.
Some moments I know myself.
Some days I feel love, and sometimes I feel lost.
More often than not, I feel god-ness and human-ness, hand in hand. Like this particular pope, perhaps. I have to say, I rather like him. Even if he does wear white after Labor Day.
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