A Saturday Morning Stroll

 For the first time in what feels like a while (but maybe not), I had a Saturday with no scheduled events on it.

It is a hard thing for me at times, this idea of nothing on the schedule - modulated by the fact that "nothing on the schedule" never means that I do not have things I need (or at least think I need) to do.   An empty early Saturday morning means more time to pray and read and write, more time to try and translate Old English (we are currently - and slowly - working our way through "The Battle of Maldon"), more time to have more coffee (maybe a little more than I usually do).

It is also a good time for a stroll.

During the week I try to get out the door no later than 0615 for my stroll, which is approximately 30 minutes long.  It is more appetizing in the Spring and Summer of course, when the sun is up.  But we are plunging slowly beneath the waves of Autumn into Winter, with the sunrise now delayed to 0645 - but always moving later.  As a luxury to myself, I wait until the sun comes up, busying myself with laundry and more reading.

This is the coldest morning we have had in a while:  40 F/4.5 C is what greets me when I get up.  The temperature has risen to a warmer 43 F/6 C by the time I get underway, making my traditional stop at the dumpster to dispose of the cat's litter box leavings.

It rained last night at some point as I was treading the darkened paths of sleep; I heard no sound of it but the evidence is always clearly on the blacktop as I stare out the window.  As a result everything is cool and wet.  It rained yesterday, enough that I did not have to water.  Today's rain will obviate the need to water today as well.

Once I get going, I do enjoy walking in the morning darkness:  the play of light on leaves and trees is lyrical, the moon and clouds dance between seasons, the clouds winning more than the moon at this point.  Walking in the morning light is different, especially on a Saturday:  far more people are up and about, running or strolling or walking their dogs.  I move to the street (or try to) as a courtesy to dog walkers:  at least one small dog still considers me a threat.  I mockingly throw up my hands in surrender as I walk by and acknowledge his fierceness; his owner and I share a laughing glance.

I modulate between listening to something and silence in walking, neither of which seems to take with me this morning.  The podcasts are too political so I turn them off.  The silence leads my mind down things at my job or other larger events that cause a spike in my anger.  I have to self modulate between them.  I have a song list on The Tube of You that is well curated and I can concentrate on.  The Ravishing Mrs. TB reminded me I have a Dotify account as well - it turns out they have a wealth of music there, songs that I have not thought of in years.  Alan Stivell, the Breton harper is there:  after years of not hearing him, it is a pleasure to find out I can still hum along.

After the long walk to the end of the street, I have a choice - immediately go back or walk down the The Allotment.  I was going to go down today as a sort of pre-harvest cleanup for next week, but I would like to let things dry out.  It is worth the quarter mile stroll or so to get there.

This is the first time I have been down there in the daylight in almost a week:  the rapidly decreasing daylight means most visits are now in the evening dark which is enough to see where I need to water but not necessarily specifics.  It is working for now; I will be glad to have a rest for Winter.

In the daylight, one can see my wins and errors:  a few bean pods still cling to drying as to the better amount of my soybeans.  The potatoes have fallen down. The grain I planted is clearly too close together; I need a better planting method.  And I still have tomatoes on the vine.

One of the branches is bent over with the weight.  In my attempts to "help", I manage to break the branch. There are two tomatoes that are close; I think the rest will have to be sacrificed.  I grab all the ripe ones I can find.

Tomorrow, I mutter to myself as I wash the tomatoes off from leaf mold, I need to cut the beans back.

Walking home with a pocket of tomatoes on one side and a phone in the other, I start to play something else - and then find myself wound up again.  I change the subject in my mind - and then get wound up again.

Then I reach in my pocket and feel the tomatoes, dried and warm in the fleecy pocket.  And calm down.  This, I remind myself, is reality.  This is the sort of thing I can marginally influence.  This is representative of what effort properly directed in action does.

Making the last turn, I hear the sound of geese overhead, a set of many that I have heard on this hike, flying in formation heading for warmer climates.  Like them, I turn towards home as well.