Do not be daunted by the world’s grief. Walk humbly now. Do justly now. Love mercy now. – Shapiro
Nov. 9, Thursday. 7:30-8:30am walk (sunrise, such as it is, was at 7:40 today) 45 degrees, rain, winds SE 16 mph with gusts to 28mph at the airport. That’s just a few miles up the river from here. Flowing tide.
We walked early because my walking partner is still out of town and now my husband is too. Chip left on the ferry for his annual deer hunt yesterday so I didn’t sleep well. I am not my best when we are apart. It takes a day or two to adjust. Also, I was not thinking the best thoughts about you as I listened to the rain strafe the windows. I may have even skipped the early walk if I hadn’t promised I’d be here.
Compared to real world problems, this is silly, I know.
Also, these walks and the solace and wonder that comes from spending an hour paying attention to the rhythms of the same two-mile stretch of Chilkat River beach, at the same time every day, in a month that doesn’t get much praise around here, are of value precisely because the world is in shambles. A caring person could just pull the covers up over her head and stay in bed until June.Or whenever the sun comes out again (in every sense of the word.)
I listened to the headlines on KHNS and then headed out the door where there was much more to cheer about, even on a nasty day, even by our standards.
The sheltered path in the woods, for one.
And look at this. X marks the spot. If my head wasn’t down to stay out of the wind I would never have seen it.
Look at all the garden mulch the storm blew in. Leaves, seaweed, grasses, all ground up by the waves. This is good news for procrastinators who may not have covered up all their beds for the winter, and it’s piled up near enough to Mud Bay Road that you can pack out buckets full without much effort.
The leaves that stay make dirt for the grass, and later roses and trees to grow in.
The river looks like coffee thanks to all the silt in it from the glaciers up high. Geologists say that the Chilkat River Valley between here and Klukwan, about 20 miles up, is a fjord as deep as Lynn Canal, but the river has filled it in. We are walking on top of a thousand feet of glacial till. Imagine that. Here I have been counting the minutes of daylight lost in the last 24 hours.
Pearl doesn’t like the wind and rain in her face, and at 12 she is slower than she used to be. I was walking fast, trying to get out of the worst of it, anxious about the state of the world and a busy day. ( On Thursday I am the afternoon country show host on KHNS.) I didn’t realize she was so far back. I felt terrible.
I stopped to wait, and for the first time since we left the house, was still. Really still. I couldn’t even take pictures because my phone screen was wet and wouldn’t let me in. Everything else was in motion- the clouds storming toward Klukwan, the river pouring into to the sea in the opposite direction, the tide filling in against the current, the wind blowing the grass flat, and wobbling through the spruce and cottonwoods-
This is what I want to tell you: I thought I was being kind to Pearl by waiting for her, but she did me the favor by making me stop and wait. To take a pause. It was only a few minutes, but it was just what I needed. It felt like that peace, as we say in church, that passes all understanding.
