Walking

When I get restless at night I go for walks on the track outside. I sometimes seek out company for these excursions, but as the semester has progressed I have felt increasingly the need to be alone. This is not typical of me, but I am learning to depend on it. My walks are my time with God. Some nights my walks take me up to the top of the hill, and I sit and talk to him about everything, and tell him what I think, and he responds and we have a good conversation. Those nights, I lay back against the grass and stare up at him, and he winks at me and I smile, and we just sit there thinking together. And sometimes I go to the hill to fight something out because I need his help.

Tonight I walk out to the track and choose to go right, arbitrarily. The sky is big here, yawning cavernous overhead, most of its treasures obscured by the dragon's breath (or by light pollution, whichever you prefer). Only a handful of gems pierce through, scattered across the inverted bowl of sky, but a handful is all I need, to look and trace and see him in.

I tell him a little about my day, and he listens, and I tell him about what I think, and ask his advice, and he tells me the same thing he's told me a thousand times before. I nod, like I always do, but I really think it's starting to sink in. I try to pray, but each prayer I start peters out after a few sentences. They are striving prayers, forced. My heart agrees with them but does not join in, so I stop. Tonight is just a walking night.

The track is populated. There are several pairs of joggers, girls running together for safety. Measured breathing offsets their pounding footsteps as their legs rhythmically swish past. I stay on the outer edge of the track so that I do not get in their way. I hear a voice coming from across the soccer field, a young man who talks to himself as he runs, encouraging his heart and lungs in mixed Spanish and English. He is fast, and has already passed me once, calling motivation to his muscles: the spirit is willing, but the flesh tires quickly. I am still walking.

When I walk with people I walk fast. Part of me dislikes being in the middle of a pack, part of me is afraid I will be left behind, part of me just likes to be early. But when I walk alone I take my time. It's me and him anyway, and there's nothing that could really be called a destination, so all I have to do is avoid Spanglish guy. I follow the paved path, hearing the subdued noises of my jeans and flip-flops mingle with the incessant, whispering breeze. I watch the runners on the track ahead and wonder: are they running to or away from something? Probably just aerobic points.

Tonight is a walk for no reason. Trees set patterns across the path and I flash in and out of them: light shadow light shadow light. I alternate between looking up at the stars and looking down at the path, and I am looking down when movement in a crack of asphalt catches my eye. An inchworm struggles over the crevice. He is about one-third of the way across, and I want to help him, but there are two joggers closing in behind me and I am walking on before I realize it. The joggers pass me and I retrace my steps a few yards, but I don't see the inchworm. I hope he made it.

I decide to circle the track again. Spanglish guy is about to give out. I am pulling for him. The toes on my left foot go numb as I reach the backside of the baseball stadium, and I wonder why I am still walking. The grassy creek bank rises to my right and I look out over the fog that has gathered in the creek bottom that I somehow missed my first time around, it occurs to me that the sight is probably worth numb toes. Overhead the Dipper empties itself into the swirling ether, and I tip my head back and drink deeply the elixir that is the clean, leaf-scented night air.

Once when I was a kid, the power went out in my neighborhood independent of thunderstorm, and my sister and brother and I went out and marveled at the brightness of the moon. I wish, only partly kidding, for all the power to go out here. But it doesn't, which is probably a good thing.

Footsteps crunch behind me on the gravel beside the track and my friend Caroline tosses me a greeting as she runs by. Caroline is blond and athletic and kind, and whenever I see her I smile, because she is that kind of person. I watch her run, not on the track, but beside it, over the grass in parts, and through puddles. Inspired, I too leave the track and cut across the soccer fields. This does nothing to improve the state of my toes, but after a brief consultation my toes and I decide that cold dewy grass is worth it.

I pause in the middle of the field and want very much to say something, but nothing comes to mind. I think he heard me anyway.

He and I don't talk much as I climb the hill again, taking it at a gradual slope to make it easier on my toes, but I say goodnight when I hit the sidewalk and he nods, and I know for the millionth time the peace that can be in wordlessness.