Day 1

In Thoreau’s essay “Walking,” he writes, “I have met with but one or two persons in the course of my life who understood the art of Walking, that is, of taking walks—who had a genius, so to speak, for sauntering.” Thoreau goes on to admit that in order to keep up his own health, good spirits, and inflow of literary inspiration, he was wont to saunter at least four hours a day. Having chosen to have and support a family, which I'll never regret, life’s demands allot me much less than four hours a day for sauntering. Thoreau’s assertion, however, recently kindled a desire to discover the genius—the art—in walking. Thus, today I begin a journey, one I hope will last a lifetime, of early morning walks. This blog will serve, in part, to record the art I observe on my morning walks.

I set my alarm last night for 5 AM, but my three-month-old daughter’s hungry cries woke us all up at 4:45. (This may seem ridiculously early to be going on a walk, and it is, but my typical day’s demands begin at 6. So, in order to always get my walk in, I’ll be waking up a little earlier than usual for now on.) My wife took over the daughter duties—hungry babies don’t usually care much for dads—as I pulled on my coat, scarf, hat, and gloves and ventured out the door.

I accompanied my first step with a deep cough that shattered the dark silence as the freezing air rushed into my lungs. My first thought was to turn around and go back to bed, but I walked on. The sky was black, no stars or moon, only street lamps suspended between block houses to light the sidewalk.

I immediately recognized the mysterious beauty of shadows and darkness, Hawthorne and Poe tapped into so many years ago. My next cough ricocheted from house to house ahead of me announcing my coming. A part of me felt strange, not wanting to be discovered, walking about the silent streets dressed in Christmas pajama pants while mumbling impressions into an iPod. I was sure some onlooker would suspect me a drunk, though I am an ever-sober saunterer.

A moment later, I almost slipped on an unnoticed stretch of ice. I most definitely would have if it wasn’t for the encased cigarette butts that roughened the surface. I’ve never been so grateful for my neighbor, who sends more smoke into our atmosphere than any chimney on the street. I was surprised when I looked up and didn’t see him. I thought if anyone would be out at this hour it would be him, standing on his doorstep as he always does, a cigarette hanging from his chapped lips, staring off into some unknown abyss until I startle him with my daily “Guten Tag!” (I’m currently studying in Germany, hence the German greeting.) He always returns my greeting gruffly, but I imagine that beneath his ashen surface he is glad someone acknowledges his existence with more than a choking glare.  

I soon passed a burned-out garage at the end of the street with boards over the windows. The fire happened about a month ago. Could those iced-over cigarettes be to blame? The garage belonged to a retired couple and had been in the family for centuries. Before the windows were boarded up, the street stank of those possessions forever lost. I had often stopped to look in on the remains of an antique sewing machine, garden tools, and hunting trophies, reminding myself to collect memories more than material. The reminder was even more penetrating this morning, coupled with the morning’s silence.

The silence broke suddenly with the ignition of a delivery van as I approached the nearest bakery on Main Street. Behind the window stood a stout, middle-aged woman next to a case of freshly baked rolls. She had obviously been awake and working for hours. One of these days I need to drop in and thank her for waking so early and working so tirelessly to make our lives so delicious. In front of the bakery stood street lamps decorated with flower pots, filled with last year’s flowers, brown and rigid, yet seemingly content, knowing that springtime sun will bring resurrection.

To my right, David Beckham stood staring at me in his underwear. Just yesterday my wife took pictures of me standing in front of a similar ad, fully clothed of course, but trying to imitate Beckham’s face. Those of you, who know me, realize how comical this was for my wife since I can't make a serious, model-like face for the life of me. Seeing my reflection in the advertisement this morning reminded me of my own normalcy.

Behind Beckham sat an old couch begging me to investigate its abandonment. Its worn cushions testified of absolute loyalty, having always provided immediate comfort to the family it had served only to be tossed aside when financial circumstances proved capable of more modern furnishings, a testimony to how rapidly fidelity gives way to fashion.

Finally the morning’s first bike passed, a flickering headlight guiding the way 

as a woman approached the tram station from the opposite direction. The tram appeared from around the corner, proving the woman perfectly punctual, and announcing that the city was slowly coming to life.

To my right, the local bank's digital thermometer attested to my insanity and my right hand begged for a glove as it shivered to take another picture. 

Opposite the bank, a gift shop display caught my attention, tempting me to take a closer look.

It seems there is always 50% off of something somewhere, yet big red letters continue to prove persuasive in making us buy things we don’t need. When will the justification, “But it was on sale?” ever make up for an empty wallet and a garage boxed to the brim with superfluities? Oh, spring cleaning can’t come soon enough! This walk is proving to be a self-spring cleaning of sorts.

Just before I turned back for home, I spotted a set of electrical boxes stained in graffiti in a language I didn’t understand. 

In retrospect, I count my linguistic ignorance a blessing, for graffiti never fails to remind me of adolescent obscenities. There’s something about graffiti, though, despite the language, and despite the message, that gives a city a certain flare, a unique character; yet an undeniable, inner anxiety.

Directly behind me, a tall steeple bid sanctuary, yet the surrounding trees bid a much gloomier welcome. I entered the chapel grounds only to discover the doors to be locked. It seems that steeples and sanctuaries often fail us when we most need them, proving our inner conviction the deciding factor when man-made edifices lock their doors.

 

Down the street a block or so, a single light flickered as I passed. The rickety sound of opening shutters drew my attention to a man staring out from behind the glass, half-awake and half-confused at the strange looking, self-conversing saunterer returning his stare. Outside his house stood a BMW, the interior blinking red to scare off intruders. The ever-blinking red reiterated the feared dangers of darkness. There would be no light to blink if there was no burglar to break in.

As I turned the final corner back onto my street, I observed a refreshing home, displaying less worries than the rest. It was equipped with the old wooden shudders that emanate a welcoming charm, an open trust in the common good of the neighborhood. Its open shudders were singular, however, as all other windows hid behind their upgraded, more fear-repellent, roll-down shudders.

I saw my last, visible breath as I opened my door and entered the warmth of home just in time to relieve my wife of dirty diaper duties.