journal

the walk


The walk always does me good. I heave myself from the house, heart a little heavy, eyes cast downward, an inner fog circulating. But my legs are wise. They know movement is medicine. They take charge of everything. Instructions are given to find a coat, shoes, the keys to the front door. This time, I bring music. I need a rhythm to walk to. I am heading to the highest point in the city. People usually drive. But not me. Not today. Today I need to shake it all out, slough off this thin skin, puncture the porous membrane of myself so new air can come in. Any air. I have been breathing this same air for too long, my eyes skittish, tentative. There's a comfort in this discomfort. I am so close to the bone, so close to the ground, that if I fell I wouldn't fall far. And yet. And yet. My legs. They know.

 

 

And in no time, and because it has to, my gaze lifts from the gutter. The incline pushes my lungs free. I can hear my own aliveness in my ears. And spring. Spring is everywhere. Color and texture and blossom and bloom. Evidence of change. Evidence of survival. The story I've been carrying forgets where it was going. It loses its grip. The poppies are an intoxicating orange, petals verging. Signs and wonders. "No Parking." "Natural Habitat Restoration." "Four Three Two One." Countdown. Freedom. Countdown to frredom. It begins with the legs. They know. Movement is medicine. The view from the top of the hill can only be seen from the top of the hill. The path is winding before it evens out. The path is winding before it evens out.