Golden
I finally stopped running.
The routine felt oppressive and there was all
that huffing and puffing. Everything went by
so fast, the bungalows of Berkeley a blur,
the friendly cats passed in a leap, the
crazies of University Avenue or MLK deftly
avoided (or ignored). I couldn't think beyond
my heartbeat. When I first started running
again, there was pleasure in
the rush, in the pounding of my feet.
There was purpose. But now I was getting
bored with my routes and not feeling
motivated enough to pick new ones.
So now I walk. Three mornings a week, I
wander the sidewalks, sometimes stop to pet a
cat or watch one hummingbird dive-bomb
another. I still move quickly, a hair over
four miles per hour, fast enough to get a
workout, but slow enough to really see
things. My weekday walks are relatively
short, about three miles, but on Sundays I
have the luxury (thanks to my husband) of
going longer, often past six miles.
View of the hills from my street.
From our neighborhood in
the flats, with its stubby trees and cozy
two-bedroom bungalows, I head for the hills,
where the trees and the houses stretch out in
all directions. It's not that the hills are
less populous: even more than in our West
Berkeley neighborhood, houses here are packed
in tight. And like the flats, there are
places where large backyards have been taken
over by second, income-generating houses. But
there are all those trees,
and the streets twist and get vertical before
suddenly dipping and rising again. The houses
are generally bigger and more various, fun to
look at, to imagine myself in. The views are
also incredible. My Sunday walk is a hike on
sturdy sidewalks, much of the beauty with
none of the mud of a woodland trail.
For the first half of the walk, I usually
talk to my mother on the phone -- though I
have to ask her to do most of the talking
during some of the steeper climbs (and
forgive me my heaving breathing). We've had
some of our most interesting conversations
during these walks, about books and what it
means to be a writer, about art and spirit.
View of Marin County and the San Francisco
Bay from Euclid Avenue, just before the
Berkeley
Rose Garden.
During the second half, I
look at the houses and the view. I think. On
a clear day, you can see the hills of Marin
County across the Bay or catch a glimpse of
the Golden Gate bridge. I imagine a life in a
house perched high, where I would inch my way
up from the sidewalk on a set of narrow steps
edged into rock. The chill of pine-scented
fog would accompany my morning coffee and I
would watch every sunset from my teetering
deck, stand wrapped in a wool blanket,
sipping a glass of plummy Zinfandel as the
sky fills with color. Near the base of one
hill, I pass a small wooden house constructed
around a tree. The house is rustic, with
unfinished planks as siding. On colder
mornings, a line of smoke trails from the
chimney. What would it be like to live in
such a house, where nature has been invited
in? Here I would bake my own bread in a
wood-fired oven, have a huge untidy garden,
maybe a couple of egg-laying chickens out
back.
The view down
from Keith Avenue.
Around mile four, I'm going downhill and the
endorphins start to kick in. I think about
how lucky I am to have my husband, so funny
and creative, smart and loving, how lucky we
are to have our boy, how maybe I can do this
writing thing after all. I don't worry about
income or what is coming next, just feel
appreciative for all that I have. Which is a
lot. I realize that in many of my
alternate-life fantasies, I am alone, and I
wonder about my imagined bereftness when I
have a loving family at home. I'm
self-protective even in my imagination, and I
make a vow to change that, to bring my family
into these scenes, there with me as I sip the
Zinfandel or collect eggs from the chicken
coop. The recognition of my stubborn fear of
loss makes my heart ache and I pick up the
pace in anticipation of seeing my husband and
son.
The trees start to get smaller, the houses
less lavish. The sidewalk loses its slope.
The hills are behind me now, a dramatic
backdrop against cottony blue. My legs are
starting to ache and my stomach growls in
anticipation of food. By the time I reach our
block, I have acclimated back to the flats,
to the place where my family waits. I walk in
the front door, tired and happy. Mr. Trinkle,
the kid, and our various animals greet me
with hugs, kisses, and licks, and the humans
in the house sit down for our traditional
Sunday breakfast of bagels and cream cheese
with a side of the Sunday New York
Times.
This is where I belong.
Top image: A peek at the
San Francisco Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge,
taken from just above the Berkeley Rose
Garden. All photos from November
2009.
I can walk under ladders
My husband defended his dissertation.
I am typing in a sun-filled room, buoyed by three sleeping, contented kitties.
The laptop has been around almost six years and is going strong.
My marriage is better than it ever was.
There is more than enough food to eat today, this week, this month.
Our son is happy, healthy, and full of imagination.
Nora-dog is curled up in a patch of sun, perhaps dreaming of chasing squirrels or nibbling on giant biscuits.
Blogging has brought me both friendship and readers. I am grateful for both.
We live in a lovely house.
Twenty-four years ago today, something terrible happened, but I survived intact. Enough.
I am a writer.
I can transcend.
I'm lucky. I'm lucky. I'm lucky.
Thank you for being a part of it.