Last week I lamented that the walkers seemed to have disappeared. Today I found one—a small man with two corgis, pausing under an ornamental tree. This was in an older neighborhood, with grand houses and well-tended, established gardens. I’d been admiring the hydrangeas just coming into bloom when he spoke.
“Nice cool morning for a run.”
“It is!” I agreed. Although I quite hate the wind and gloom. His face was beet red, swollen. Alcohol, I guess, may not be the best way to cope, but it is one way.
I’d just run—and I use the term “run” loosely—up a long hill. I’d paused at the bottom to take a photo of the glorious view, the same view I found so appealing last April when I was trying a new route.
A few blocks later, I heard footsteps behind me, turned to look. A tall man sporting a shocking orange shirt was gaining on me as I plodded along.
“Aw, go ahead!” I said, laughing, yielding the center of the narrow street, and gesturing for him to pass.
He chuckled.
“You know, I picked this neighborhood so I wouldn’t have to see runners whizzing by!”
He laughed again and said, “Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter. You’re out here. That’s what counts. That’s what counts. You’re out here.”
And then I laughed, “Not dead yet!”
He raised his eyebrows in doleful agreement. “That’s right.” And after a long pause, again, “That’s right.” And then he turned a corner and was gone.
Last week I also tried a new schedule, thinking that if I found a way to structure my time, I’d be able to tackle the job search and putter daily in the garden and write a children’s grammar text for homeschoolers—more about the book later.
Well. I was incorrect. About the schedule. Turns out, writing a book, even a short unit on sentences for young children, requires all of one’s attention. LinkedIn and the resumé and whatnot will have to wait a few weeks.
Maybe he’s right, orange shirt guy. Maybe being out there is what counts. I thought about that. What counts? What counts during a global pandemic? I listened to the steady rhythm of my plodding steps, my heartbeat. The steady rhythm of my breath, in my poor damaged-but-still-functioning lungs. Not being dead yet. That counts. The simple pleasures—the making of a garden, the long talks with friends. These matter.