Walk

 

Autumn brings mixed emotions. The soothing heat of the summer is over and the Devil’s dusting is on the horizon. Sure, the temperatures are colder, but don’t be a pussy. Layer up.

On the other hand, fall has a sweet scent to it; a comfortable essence that draws me outside. I love to walk in the autumn wind, present with the moment. One has to be aware of the “now” up here in Canada. If you’re not, hypothermia sets in within minutes.

Fall is a sensual season of leaves skittering along curbs and sidewalks, the bass-line whistle of the wind swirling through bare tree branches. Others have already given up on the year. They begin their annual hibernation; an evening ritual that includes donning a housecoat at the back door after work, scarfing down a bowl of mac & cheese, then going numb in front of the television for a five hour shift. Repeat until the weekend when the five-hour shift becomes an 18 hour marathon of sports, reality TV and government endorsed programming.

Not me. I’m outside with one hand in my pocket, the other holding the leash to my dog. Today, the galavant included a bag of disc golf plastic. Shot three down. Solid.

But in most cases, as long as the ground remains snow and ice-free, I’m just walking. Where? It doesn’t matter. Why? It doesn’t matter. With whom? Just me and the dog.

To walk for walking’s sake is eternal. It’s ancestral.

Think about it. Back in the day - way back - walking was not only our lone source of travel, but our occupation; besides the job we all enjoy, reproduction. We walked to find food, to build shelter, to care for family members, to pay Orcus - that Paleolithic son of a bitch - after losing a bet on the last rock roll competition.

So I walk like them, mindful of every step, feeling every pebble and crack on the concrete beneath my feet. Kicking a stone to the curb  to watch what direction the Universe will take it. Counting every hypodermic needle and used condom on Scarth Street.

No minding the litter. It exists. Whatever. I could pick it up, but I’m allergic to STDs. It matters not who put it there, though it’s likely the guy laying across the top of the garbage can in the mall.

I’m just walking, brah. One foot in front of the other, trailing a hyper active Kelpie-Collie cross that refuses to defecate before we fucking leave for once. That’s, sadly, part of the experience, too. I don’t like being mindful during that part. It’s stinks like death dipped in skunk rot.

The chill in the air is uncomfortable at times. But life is uncomfortable. The more you get used to it, the more you can handle the real irritations; like a plugged toilet, or going bald, or that stubborn mole on your neck the mother-in-law won’t leave you alone about.

All that stuff goes away when a bitter breeze licks your cheek.

Winter is coming; three months of low light, dark nights and arguments over the thermostat.

Doesn’t matter. I’m walking here.

–MCM