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.

Tags: Berkeley, CA, walks, Berkeley Hills, running, contentment, gratitude

I finished the first draft.

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.

Tags: Thanksgiving, luck, thankfulness, gratitude, Joan Armatrading, Pets