Once not long ago, I got disoriented while on a walk in the woods behind my camp. I was on a quest to find the old Prince family farmhouse that I was told was at the end of a path that led away from the lake. When I realized that I was lost, silence descended and I felt swallowed by the trees. My heart pounded in my panic. My fear heightened all my senses, and I looked around for something familiar, something I might recognize in the landscape that would set me on track once again. It was the lake that saved me. Suddenly I could hear a boat or maybe a jet ski on the lake in the distance. I followed the sound. When I got home, I felt ridiculous. But I vowed never again to venture into the woods alone. For a while, fear kept me from that which I once enjoyed.
Then one day I left the dirt road and once again walked into the woods. Every day since then, I walked deeper into the woods until I was no longer afraid. Each day I went a bit farther, using the lake sounds as my guide. I never got lost again. All women need to go bravely into the woods. Getting lost can sometimes help you find yourself, and being lost is not the same as not knowing where you are.
From my reading:
“There is nothing to be afraid of in the woods, except yourself. If you’ve got sense, you can keep out of trouble. If you haven’t got sense, you’ll get into trouble, here or anywhere else.”
-–Louise Dickenson Rich
Showing posts with label walking. Show all posts
Showing posts with label walking. Show all posts
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Living in the moment--lessons from the dog
This morning my dog Oliver and I took our usual walk along the dirt camp road. Oliver is an old dog (15!), and he no longer bounds ahead of me as he once did, but he still enjoys his excursions. I want to get in a good brisk walk and then get back to camp to do some work, but no. We walk a few feet and then Oliver stops to smell something on the side of the road. We walk a few more feet and then he stops to pee on a rock. It goes on like this for a half mile or so. This is definitely not the aerobic workout I need. However, it occurs to me that Oliver has much to teach me about slowing down to enjoy the sights and smells around me.
Here are a few other lessons from Oliver that remind me how best to live:
• Walk every day, even if you don’t feel like it.
• Live life in the moment rather than in planning what to do next. Do this on the deck.
• Skip the caffeine in the morning and feel better the rest of the day.
• Don’t snack between meals.
• Get in a good eight to ten hours sleep every night.
• Take a good long nap every afternoon. Do this on the deck.
• Ignore jumping up to check email every time you hear it chime.
• Spend at least three hours each day gazing at the lake. Do this on the deck.
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Here are a few other lessons from Oliver that remind me how best to live:
• Walk every day, even if you don’t feel like it.
• Live life in the moment rather than in planning what to do next. Do this on the deck.
• Skip the caffeine in the morning and feel better the rest of the day.
• Don’t snack between meals.
• Get in a good eight to ten hours sleep every night.
• Take a good long nap every afternoon. Do this on the deck.
• Ignore jumping up to check email every time you hear it chime.
• Spend at least three hours each day gazing at the lake. Do this on the deck.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Shaking off the village
I am back from meeting my new grandson. I could go on and on about that amazing baby, but this blog is about my summer at the lake, so I’ll stay focused on that here.
I have been rereading Thoreau this summer. Like me, Thoreau liked to take long walks to clear his mind and renew his spirit. Okay, okay. I also walk because the dog needs exercise and we both need to burn some calories. Maybe even skip a few meals. Thoreau doesn’t make any mention of this in his essay.
Thoreau preferred walking in the woods. I like walking on the dirt road. He walked in a parabola—I walk in a straight line. Thoreau liked evening “saunters”—I prefer brisk morning exercise. However, Thoreau and I do share one thing in our walking habits. Like Thoreau, I try to focus on the moment when I walk, on what I’m seeing and hearing and smelling on the journey. I really make an effort. Thoreau called it “shaking off the village.”
I like to use a walking stick when I go into the woods. My friend Ed carved my favorite walking stick from a tree taken from our property on the lake. It is about five feet tall and an inch and a half in diameter. The top is carved into a bearded face, a wood sprite who scowls at me during our walks. The hand grip is wrapped in soft deer skin, laced on with a thin strip of rawhide. I take it into the woods in the even that some wild animal might try to attack me or the dog. Of course, that has never happened.
Here is my walking stick:
I have been rereading Thoreau this summer. Like me, Thoreau liked to take long walks to clear his mind and renew his spirit. Okay, okay. I also walk because the dog needs exercise and we both need to burn some calories. Maybe even skip a few meals. Thoreau doesn’t make any mention of this in his essay.
Thoreau preferred walking in the woods. I like walking on the dirt road. He walked in a parabola—I walk in a straight line. Thoreau liked evening “saunters”—I prefer brisk morning exercise. However, Thoreau and I do share one thing in our walking habits. Like Thoreau, I try to focus on the moment when I walk, on what I’m seeing and hearing and smelling on the journey. I really make an effort. Thoreau called it “shaking off the village.”
I like to use a walking stick when I go into the woods. My friend Ed carved my favorite walking stick from a tree taken from our property on the lake. It is about five feet tall and an inch and a half in diameter. The top is carved into a bearded face, a wood sprite who scowls at me during our walks. The hand grip is wrapped in soft deer skin, laced on with a thin strip of rawhide. I take it into the woods in the even that some wild animal might try to attack me or the dog. Of course, that has never happened.
Here is my walking stick:
Friday, July 16, 2010
A Dog's Life
At camp, it truly is a dog’s life. There are no sidewalks or leash laws (well, there might be, but no one pays much attention to them), and most of the dogs on my dirt road are allowed to roam freely.
My own dog Oliver loves to be at camp. One reason is that he has my undivided attention. I don’t get up and leave for work every morning, and because I’m at camp, I don’t go away on long business trips or vacations. I confess that all the dogs we have owned have been allowed to sleep on the furniture, and at night, slumber along beside us in the bed. Oliver sleeps attached to me like a tick. He doesn’t bother me much except for the occasional leg twitching during chipmunk chasing episodes during his REM sleep.
Oliver's dog friend Elli visits him every day. She knows he is old, so she just touches his nose to say hi and then she leaves to find more frisky companions.
Oliver is an old dog. He’s lost a few teeth. He used to bark happily when I had been gone and returned. Now, he can’t hear me when I come home so it might be ten or fifteen minutes before he realizes I’m there, but then he barks happily, just like always. Oliver still likes to play “throw toy” after dinner. He enjoys the company of children and other dogs. He loves to swim in the lake and ride in the kayak.
Although his eyes are cloudy, he can still see anyone who approaches the camp by land or by water. Oliver is still a great watchdog, but he’s easily startled when anyone approaches him from behind. I can leave the room and he doesn’t realize I’m gone. Sometimes his hips hurt and his legs fail him after he’s been sleeping for a long time, and he has a hard time climbing the stairs. He no longer chases chipmunks, but he insists on a morning walk. We walk the same distance as always, but we do it much more slowly than we did, say, five years ago.
I once wrote a book about dogs, called The Dogs of War. It is a collection of stories about the role of companion animals, mostly dogs, during the American Civil War, spin off research from a historical novel I was writing at the same time. Oliver was by my side as I was writing both of these books, listening as I tried out my stories on him. I talk out loud when I write, and then I type what I say—it sounds strange, but it works for me. Oliver has heard many of my stories over the last 13 years. I imagine if he could tell me a story, he would tell me about a woman who spends her summers in Maine with a wonderful dog.
“Is that all?” I ask.
“Isn’t that enough?” he replies.
My own dog Oliver loves to be at camp. One reason is that he has my undivided attention. I don’t get up and leave for work every morning, and because I’m at camp, I don’t go away on long business trips or vacations. I confess that all the dogs we have owned have been allowed to sleep on the furniture, and at night, slumber along beside us in the bed. Oliver sleeps attached to me like a tick. He doesn’t bother me much except for the occasional leg twitching during chipmunk chasing episodes during his REM sleep.
Oliver's dog friend Elli visits him every day. She knows he is old, so she just touches his nose to say hi and then she leaves to find more frisky companions.
Oliver is an old dog. He’s lost a few teeth. He used to bark happily when I had been gone and returned. Now, he can’t hear me when I come home so it might be ten or fifteen minutes before he realizes I’m there, but then he barks happily, just like always. Oliver still likes to play “throw toy” after dinner. He enjoys the company of children and other dogs. He loves to swim in the lake and ride in the kayak.
Although his eyes are cloudy, he can still see anyone who approaches the camp by land or by water. Oliver is still a great watchdog, but he’s easily startled when anyone approaches him from behind. I can leave the room and he doesn’t realize I’m gone. Sometimes his hips hurt and his legs fail him after he’s been sleeping for a long time, and he has a hard time climbing the stairs. He no longer chases chipmunks, but he insists on a morning walk. We walk the same distance as always, but we do it much more slowly than we did, say, five years ago.
I once wrote a book about dogs, called The Dogs of War. It is a collection of stories about the role of companion animals, mostly dogs, during the American Civil War, spin off research from a historical novel I was writing at the same time. Oliver was by my side as I was writing both of these books, listening as I tried out my stories on him. I talk out loud when I write, and then I type what I say—it sounds strange, but it works for me. Oliver has heard many of my stories over the last 13 years. I imagine if he could tell me a story, he would tell me about a woman who spends her summers in Maine with a wonderful dog.
“Is that all?” I ask.
“Isn’t that enough?” he replies.
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