Reason 93: Walking
100 Reasons I'm Retiring
You did not walk with me
Of late to the hill-top tree
By the gated ways,
As in earlier days;
You were weak and lame,
So you never came,
And I went alone, and I did not mind,
Not thinking of you as left behind …
Thomas Hardy
We used to go for walks. Money was tight in the early days of marriage, but walking was free. We’d walk down to the river and watch the sunset over the water. Later, we’d push a baby carriage and pull toddlers along in a wagon, letting them play on the swings in the river park while we enjoyed the sight of passing ships. We’d walk back home by a different path, past St. Martin’s Church. where it was rumored Black Beard the Pirate had dug a secret tunnel to the river to avoid capture by Lieutenant Robert Maynard.
Later, I walked alone. Too many times, it was a brief escape from a spouse whose care demanded more of my time, more of ME, every day. I walked to find a small piece of myself at the river, a piece I could carry home in my pocket and pull out, reminding myself that I was more than just Ron’s caregiver.
Even later, I walked with my memories, a journal and a pen tucked into my pocket. While I could not always express what sudden widowhood felt like to others, I could always scribble words onto paper, watching the geese walk along the paths where my husband’s feet had walked.
Walking, like writing, is a catharsis. It is often walking that allows me to clear my head and formulate ideas, to solve problems or pray. Or just to rediscover the pieces of myself I am still picking up and putting back into place.
How do you pick up the pieces of yourself after a death or another tragic event? Do you find that some pieces no longer fit?
So beautifully written. For many years, following the passing of my late husband, I would revisit the bench along the Mokelumne River where we had sat countless times. It was our place to escape the stresses of our blended family. It was also the place where he had proposed to me, the place where I said “yes”.