Walking with Mr. Dickens

Charles Dickens famously walked gobs of miles every single day: some sources claim as many as twenty a day, others a measly (?!) twelve--rain or shine. He claimed his daily walks were key to his ability to write the detailed sagas he's known for--though how he found the time and energy after logging twenty miles, I'd like to know.

Did he really do this? Every single day? I don't know, but there is genius to this, and if it worked for Dickens, one of the most prolific authors of his generation, I thought it might have a similar effect on me. Many years ago, I vowed to give it a try--the walking, not the total mileage.

All those years ago, I was an aspiring young writer, and as luck would have it, an aspiring young distance runner as well. Early morning, when the air was fresh and the traffic light, I tried to emulate Mr. Dickens. After the first mile, once my legs loosened and my breathing settled into a steady rhythm, my mind would float off into a waking dream, worries flitting through briefly as my feet pounded the pavement.

While my sneakers ate up the miles, the day's cares and life's anxieties would lessen and the big ideas would begin to break through, tiny crocuses poking through January snow. And as I neared the end of my run, gathering every remaining bit of strength into my rubbery thighs, I would sprint to my chosen finish line and the final idea, the strongest idea, would crush all the others beneath its strident blooms.

I'm not sure what was more addictive back then: the runner's high or the burst of creative energy.

At some point over the years the combined demand of home and work, family needs and job musts, took precedence. My runs stopped. Even if ideas bloomed, I had little time to water and tend them. I missed my early morning runs, my early morning ideas. I missed my creative high.

So. That had to change.

I'm no longer rising so early; marrying one night owl and parenting another will do that to a person. My knees no longer allow me to run on streets, but it turns out the soft trails of the forest by my house suit me far better. I've found that I don't need to run a sprint to rejuvenate my mind--a brisk walk will do, even later in the day.

I don't know if Mr. Dickens walked twenty miles every day or only twelve. I walk far fewer, but I walk. And I can tell you, he was on to something. 

What ideas poke through your January mind? I'll see you on the trail.

Passing on Wisdom

It's a hot summer day and I'm resting my carcass on a lopsided boulder partway up a mountain at a small ski resort. I'm not an Alpine skier, so I'm not privy to the glorious white panoramas my husband and son tell me about all winter long. And as a non-skier, terms like green circle, blue square, and black diamond don't mean much to me. Supposedly, green is easy, blue is intermediate, and black is hard to scary-hard. Perhaps blue is intermediate going down, but as I catch my breath on this boulder, I can tell you that hiking up a blue trail is no joke.

The boy discovered photography a few years ago, and I'm waiting here in my less-than-comfortable spot while he snaps pictures of a decommissioned ski lift. He is a truly creative spirit, finding beauty where I can only see a dilapidated lean-to surrounded by weeds. My heart is a bit in my throat as I watch from a distance his climb up the side of the structure for a better vantage point. He calls, "Hey D!", his name for me, and waves, and I know he's fine.

I'm learning, slowly, to give him his space, let him explore his independence. He'll be 14 in September, and his childhood is coming to a close. Only a few years left to teach him what I want him to know before he's making his own way in the world. These 13 years together have been a blessing to me, and I hope I'm having as positive an impact on his life as he's having on mine.

Wisdom isn't a river, rushing in one direction from a large source to a smaller pond. For me, wisdom is that uncomfortable fizzle of water in your sinuses when someone shoves you in the deep end before you can grab a breath. I've been treading water, grasping the life preserver ring, unsure which way to go, learning to swim out of necessity. And the boy is shouting to me from the side of the pool, telling me I can do it.

Fourteen years ago in the childbirth class I took at the local hospital, a labor and delivery nurse told a room of anxious, soon-to-be moms to relax. She said that we wouldn't be alone in our labor. We thought she meant we'd have a team of healthcare professionals by our sides, but no, she said. She meant that our babies would be right there with us, working as hard as we were to bring themselves into the world. That message has resonated within me from that day to this.

These past 13 years have not been easy. We've had good times and bad, individual struggles and family struggles, but all along the way, the boy has been right there, working as hard as I've been to be a part of the world. And he has passed on so much wisdom to his old mom, as the young are wont to do to their elders, if we only listen to them.

Wisdom is nothing if it is not shared, so I share with you three of my boy's top lessons:

1) Open your eyes and see the beauty around you. You'll find it in the least likely places--like an old ski lift, a wet rock, or a deer antler.

2) Be always unapologetically yourself and your people will find you. He's been teaching me this one for a while, and I love his confidence in expressing his essence in his clothing, his music, his photography. Simply put, he's an interesting and authentic individual who I'd want to be near, even if he weren't (blessedly) my son.

3) Don't be afraid to take risks. I've watched him throw himself into new situations, embrace new people, and share himself fearlessly with others. His mother is more cautious, some have said socially anxious, and I watch him in disbelief. How did he become so confident? Not my gene pool, that's for sure.

I watch him inch down slowly from the roof of the ski lift and he yells that he's climbing up higher. Wisdom of the young to their elders. Persevere. I pack up my writing pad, dust an ant off my shin, strap on my backpack, and follow.

Woodpecker on a Snag

It was still this afternoon as I walked through the forest by my house. The midday heat had something to do with it, I'm sure. A temperature gauge showing 80 would be a welcome sight to many East Coasters and Midwesterners this July, but for Pacific Northwesterners like me, blue skies and temps above 75 engender panic, leaving us gasping for breath and looking for the nearest air-conditioned building. Our furred and feathered friends don't like the heat much either, which is why my favorite walking spot was so quiet.

All the better to hear the persistent tap-tapping of a Downy Woodpecker. A quick perusal of my field guide indicated that he's the smallest American woodpecker found north of Mexico. At 6 1/2 inches long, he's just over half the size of his cousin the Northern Flicker and a whopping third of the size of the flashy Pileated Woodpecker. And yet, despite his diminutive appearance, he was unphased by the 200-foot Douglas fir he was exploring.

He dug into it with gusto, not stopping his urgent quest for bugs and grubs even when I approached and noisily fumbled with my phone. He scrambled off to one side and up the trunk and I stepped back, gazing toward the sky into the boughs of the newly dead tree. It was an old one, easily 100 years old, and I feared my friend the woodpecker had bitten off more than he could chew.

He seemed confident though. Day by day, he'd drill holes in the bark, working his way up and down and around the splendid snag. Calmly, diligently poking and searching for his livelihood, he had faith that he could conquer this tree, size be damned.

He shared his confidence with me, this tiny messenger of perseverance. Slowly, persistently, a little bit every day, he will conquer that Doug fir and move to the next and the next. I aspire to do the same. I hope you will join me from the height of your own snag.