Down the trail, I seek solace. In my younger days, in my hometown, I ran these paths, and I ran them well. Nowadays, I will take trail-time whenever and wherever I can, and get out and hike.
Clearing my head, with a walk in the forest, has become one of my healthiest coping mechanisms during Covid. I consider many things, my writing, life, parenting, and leave many behind, and just breathe and maybe snap pictures.
I like to think I'm no fool, but I know that presently I am trying to come terms with loss, one as debilitating as it is unbelievable. The gnarled and mysterious maple-tree trunks, the pips and thrashes in the brush, the birdsong out of sight, the gossamer clouds overhead, a smell of wild grass or honeysuckle, the (lately unforgiving) breeze on my face, are all enough for me. They are beautiful, even though I think they shouldn't be, when others I love can no longer enjoy their beauty. I'm angry, sometimes quietly, and sometimes not.
Lately, I may also wander in and out of social media, treating it like a community bulletin board in a hallway. I tend to imagine the poster board on the concrete wall outside a high-school gymnasium, the smells of stake sweat, dirty socks, rubber and all.
But I find that, apart from wonderful instantaneous support with others across the neighborhood, city, country, or world, that there is a lot of chatter and time-spending there that isn't for me, and certainly not in my present state. Too much grief, for me, and too many other things to consider, like why bad people can carry on, merrily, while others, good people, are struck down by cancer too young.
So that is why I will be down the trail as much as I can, and to try to walk through my anger, ease my heart and make some sense, if any, of the loss I carry with me, than physical weight.
