Walking

I went for a little walk today, determined to get a few photos of the beautiful leaves before they're gone. I didn't walk far, maybe two miles round trip, but . . . and this is embarassing, it's probably the farthest I've walked since I was in S.E. Asia. Now I haven't been entirely lazy since then, I've done some hiking since I got back, but that's different. For me, hiking means driving someplace for the express purpose of walking once you get there. But just stepping out my front door and going for a walk? Haven't really done it since I moved to Idaho.

I loved to walk in DC. I walked to and from work every day, rain or shine. I'd walk into Georgetown; I'd walk to movie theaters, brunches, book stores. Often the destination was just an excuse to get out of the house to go for a walk, but there was always a destination. And when I was in Oregon I walked every day too, I'd take the dogs and we'd head out into the maze of logging roads in the hills behind my parents' house.

But . . . it's different here. Walking without a purpose, without a reason, strolling along the dusty empty roads makes me feel exposed and vulnerable in a way that walking in the city never did. It feels aimless and somehow shameful, and I can't figure out why. When I was in college I'd often wake up in the middle of the night, put on my shoes, and wander through a dead and quiet city, with no goal, no purpose, other than to be outside, feeling the thrill of being alone in a public space. I felt exposed and vulnerable then too, but I liked it. What's changed? As I've gotten older, I've generally gotten more willing to feel vulnerable, not less. This difficulty stepping out my front door feels like a regression, and one I don't like.

The walk was beautiful. It sounded like quaking aspens and moaning cows, and smelled like pine needles and dust. I'm going to make myself go the other direction tomorrow.