*As part of a project on noticing your surroundings, I took note of everything I tend to do, think, and see when going for a walk through the neighborhood. This essayistic piece came out of that practice.
The first thing I notice at the start of my walk is the way the air feels. If there’s one thing I don’t like when I go on a walk or outside for long periods of time, its heat with humidity. I always notice if the air feels sticky, if it’s warm or hot outside, if the sun scorches my skin, if it’s cool and mild-tempered from the clouds blocking sun, what kind of precipitation is out there (if any), if there’s a breeze and, if so, how fast the wind is blowing. All of that is first taken into consideration almost before the first step I take outside and ultimately determines whether I’ll be taking a long walk, a short walk, a fast walk, a slow walk, or if I’ll go on a walk at all.
Next thing I notice is the sky; do the clouds look like a range of mountains in the distance? Are the clouds humongous and puffy like cotton, almost succeeding in blocking out the brightest bluest sky? Does the sky seem to have no sky, closing off the world, covering it like a large, gray, endless quilt? Does the sky have infinite sky, so oceanic and so wide that it’s open to everything that is? If it’s evening, what kind of sunset splays out before me? A burst of flame and passion, oranges and reds? Is it filled with cool colors of purple and pink, romance and serenity? Is it a mix of all things, like a gradient of paint colors unsure of which one matches the room best?
Beyond the sky and perhaps pulled down by gravity, my eyes gravitate towards all the shades and objects of green. How many leaves are on that tree versus the other? See how the leaves shine and shade each other when they hustle in the breeze? Whose lawn has the tallest grass? The greenest grass? The straight, freshly-mowed lines of grass? Without the green, it’s very hard for me to go on many walks and fully enjoy what’s outside. That’s one of the reasons that winter is so difficult for me, or perhaps finding immense beauty in a desert would be hard.
Because I’m an introvert, I do tend to take account of how many people appear to be taking a walk as well. I don’t like walking when many people are out, and I’m never certain if that’s from self-consciousness, the need to be and feel alone and in my own head, or to avoid any possibility of awkward confrontations of wondering if they’ll say hello first or if I will, and if neither of us did if that was rude, or if they’ll see my tiny fluff of black and white Morkie and ask to pet her, ignore her, or simply laugh at her. I prefer minimal conversation and interaction, though some days more than others I don’t mind the occasional passersby approach me and my dog. Typically, though, if I see lots of people out walking before I decide to go for a walk, I won’t go outside, or I’ll seek another place – there are quite a few nature preserves nearby – to find solace and comfort to enjoy it.
Usually in plain sight, in a manner of speaking, I can hear lots of things happening around me, though the noises don’t usually register until after I am done seeing. Oftentimes there is a high-pitched churning of insects as a backdrop. If there’s gentle wind, I love hearing the whoosh against the trees, shaking the branches ever so slightly like thousands of tiny droplets of water trickling down on metal from a great distance. (I would say I also love the rustling of the leaves, but describing the leaves that way doesn’t do the sound and the feeling justice anymore). I like to measure the weight and pace of my footsteps just by listening to them hit the pavement. I was always a heavy stepper. My family would make fun of me, pretending they heard a herd of elephants as I trampled through the hallways. I like to keep my footsteps in the same rhythm and pace for the entire walk. I know I’m slowing down if my internal metronome does not match up with the syncopation of my steps.
My gaze tends to shift upwards, looking ahead of me at a great distance. I frequently look at my surroundings, obviously, but look straight ahead and beyond unless there are people walking towards me. Then I look down, or look nearby at something off to the side, hoping to avoid eye contact, or that awkwardness of not knowing how far away you have to be before saying something, smiling, or nodding.
I don’t normally notice a lot about myself during a walk; I don’t think as meta as I do when I’m in the shower (which is an odd place to think deep thoughts, but apparently a lot of people do it; something else to explore), but my mind becomes still. The walk clears my mind of all the excess, of all the mundane worries. When I’m on a walk, uninterrupted, either alone or with my dog, I can take a deep breath and feel myself spilling out into the air, the sky, the trees – and I am not me anymore. I am not a separate individual identity, but a continuation of the environment. I let myself be.
