When I put on my pants, Lily gets excited.
Lily is a dog; she’s got a strong build, sweet face and a knack for getting into trouble.
She really likes going for walks; the sight of me putting on my windbreaker pants is an indication her favorite part of the day is about to begin.
Despite living about half a mile from the Erie Canal (0.6 miles to be exact), I typically drive there because, well, Lily’s a 110lb dog and really likes to go for walks.
As soon as it is apparent nobody is around — as is often the case — I let her off the leash. She’s a bullet, chasing deer and birds and whatever else she pleases. If I see anyone, I call her back and put her on the leash. I’m just as disappointed as she is — I like being alone on walks.
With social distancing in practice, there’s not a heck of a lot to do. Being cramped up in a house all day is suffocating, amplifying the refreshment in a breath of fresh air. More and more people have recently discovered how pleasant it is to take solitary walks. If you haven’t gone on one yet, I recommend you do.
If you can find a spot to be alone surrounded by nature, surround yourself by it, or at least be near it. Focus on the details; New York is home to great biological diversity, and it’s amazing how many different plant species you can find within a small area if you pay attention. Be sensitive to your senses; listen to the birds, the frogs, the trickle of a creek. Smell the sweet rain; trace your fingers on the bark of a tree.
Lily follows her senses: she’s often nose-to-the-ground, in search of something. As for me? I take pictures; I try to capture what is interesting in my surroundings and preserve it in pixels. The hour or so before sunset I find to be the best lighting, everything covered in a warm tone: a golden goodbye.
Another personal solitude enjoyment? Singing and talking to myself. Nobody’s listening, so why not? I think better when I walk, anyways. Yet, sometimes I walk and don’t think at all. Sometimes I walk an hour; sometimes I walk all day. I do as I feel (and have time for).
Perhaps that sounds like some sort of hippie advice. Spring is arguably the ugliest season; the dominant color is mud-brown. It’s the time of year when litter is most apparent (if you’re in need of a used tire, garbage can, bicycle, traffic cone, shopping cart or mattress, stop on by the Erie Canal).
That may all be true. Yet, spring is my favorite season. All the rain and runoff creates rejuvenation: the whole season is a metaphor of overcoming hardship. As is everything, it’s all about perspective; your perception is your reality. Let your mind ponder. Let your feet wander.
The sun is saluting Brown Bridge, an indication the walk is almost over. Lily knows the routine; she runs off, making a few more diversions for discovers before wandering down the exit path and going back on leash. She’d rather roam.
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