I have to admit, weekends aren’t what they used to be. In the past, they were something to look forward to–outings with family or friends, movies, shopping . . . without a mask. But mostly, we looked forward to family dinners–especially those with the grandkids.
But this past Sunday evening, as I prepared dinner for Steve and me, our house felt hollow and I found myself looking forward to Monday, when I ‘d return to work (though I’m mostly still working from home,) when at last, my mind would be occupied by things other than what I miss.
That afternoon, Steve and I took a short trip out of the city, an escape from the doldrums. We visited a little state park called Cedar Hill.
The morning was beautiful–sunny and touched with fall’s brisk approach. The cool breeze, the warmth of the sun, Steve and Obi–all perfect companions as I meandered through grasslands and wooded areas.
The second best part of such long walks (the best part is being out in nature) is the talks Steve and I have along the way. On Sunday’s walk, we talked about missing the grandkids, how different last year was from this year, possible plans for the future, how we can move toward those plans, and what we can do to make the loss we feel now a more positive transition.
After about an hour on the trail, we found a bench.
“Do you want to sit here and write?” I asked. It’s become a tradition for us to stop and write somewhere along the paths we walk.
“Sure,” Steve replied.
Usually, we write a haiku, or two or three. Here are a couple of mine:
crows dot a blue sky
so far from the madding crowd
but footsteps approach
on this nature trail
I’m social distancing from
But on Sunday’s walk, we seemed to need more than haiku. We needed some silliness. So, we wrote some silly sentences. This is another “game” we sometimes like to play–simply writing anything that comes to mind–the sillier, the better.
Here’s what I wrote: (Forgive the silliness.) 🙂
The gravel beneath my feet looks a lot like oatmeal I ate this morning, light tan in color–“oatmealish”–its pebbles like lumps of oats all clumped together. At two, I might have put a handful in my mouth, but 60 years later, I think not.
Obi’s blonde fur glistens in the sunlight, rather like I imagine Steve must have thought his first love’s hair glistened while, on an afternoon picnic, he pondered his first kiss.
While we walked, I told Steve how grateful I am that I have someone who understands my sadness about the grandkids moving away, someone with whom I can share my feelings, knowing he not only understands, but feels them, too.
I didn’t say it then, but feel it now as I write this blog post: I’m also grateful we both find pleasure in words. On Sunday, words and nature helped us escape the doldrums.