February 28, 2024
This morning, we awoke early and sat on the couch, sipping coffee, and talking about the upcoming day. Yesterday, my wife had a long day at work, and this morning she left early in order to start off on the right foot. The traffic along her commute had been unexpectedly bad, so this morning, she wanted to beat the rush.
As my wife drove off, I noticed the moon was a mere faint patch of light behind a thickly clouded sky. It was early and still dark outside. After a second cup of coffee, I sat down at the dining room table to write. It was unusually windy outside and I could hear the air whistling through the house with every gust. The morning sounds were eerie, but calming.
A little later, I headed out the front door for my morning walk. As soon as I stepped outside, a large red-shouldered hawk near the barn took flight, crossing the pasture and heading down the dirt road that leads away from my house. It was twilight, and the forest was loud with the rushing winds. I marveled at the sound of the air pushing through the tops of the tall pines. If I closed my eyes, I could imagine that I was standing on a beach, hearing waves hit the shore. This was no beach, however, and I thought twice before stepping into the grove, paying careful attention to my surroundings. Pines are tall and flexible, but days like today can snap the tops off the trees, causing large sections to fall to the ground.
The weather was oddly warm. In the winter, the wind was usually frigid, but this morning, the air felt balmy. I made my way north, listening to the trees bend and creak, making ominous sounds when branches touched and rubbed together. As I walked along the creek bed, a deer’s bark interrupted the whistling winds, signaling my presence to other deer in the herd. I instinctively crouched low to the ground to get a better view through the bare tree trunks, looking for raised white tails bouncing through the forest. I saw none. White-tail deer blend in well with the woods, but when they run from a threat, they raise their tails high in the air, revealing the bright underside that looks like a white flag. This alerted the other deer, giving them a visible signal to follow. I wondered if this was where the term “high tailed it out of there” came from.
Near the creek, I detected an odd odor that smelled metallic. The sky, devoid of blue, was one large blanket of dark clouds. Below, on earth, everything looked brown, green, orange, or red. That was this morning’s entire color palette. I sat on the rock to take a rest and four ducks flew by, moving east to west, the lead duck calling cadence with a song. About thirty seconds later, the same four ducks flew by, heading right back to where they came from. Apparently, they had taken a wrong turn.
As I sat on the rock, observing the tranquil scene, I intentionally aligned my internal clock with nature's gentle rhythm. This act set the mood for my workday. In a few hours, I would type emails, make phone calls, and take part in several online meetings. As the day went on, I would usually work myself at an accelerating pace. I recently realized, however, that this increase in speed and pressure was something under my control. You can move fast, I learned, without rushing.
During lunch, I drove into Wilson to pick up some carnitas street tacos from Señor Munchies. My wife recently found this place and their tacos were amazing. I picked up ten of the small tacos to go and ordered an ice cream and fruit dessert my wife loved, a small treat I planned on hiding in the freezer until she returned home. As soon as I arrived at the house, I devoured six of the tacos, at which point I could eat no more. Around this time, my wife texted to tell me she was on her way home early. When she arrived, she was famished, and the four tacos and dessert were a big hit. It felt good to repay her. A few weeks ago, I arrived home from fishing and felt starved. She had some surprise tacos ready for me and it was the best thing ever. Now it was her turn to enjoy surprise treats.
My wife took a bath and then locked herself in her office to study. After I finished work, we took a walk together to examine the pear blossoms. She loved the smell of them and peeled a small flower off the tree and held it to my nose. We walked back toward the house and she went inside while I headed out into the forest for last light.
The day had been super windy, but when I entered the woodland it suddenly became still and quiet. At the trailhead, I looked to my left and caught the sudden movement of a doe jumping to her feet and running off. She was bedded down, and I had startled her. It was a fun experience, as there were less than fifteen feet between us. When she ran off, the forest’s silence broke as the deer’s hooves hit the ground and she ran through several branches in the thicket, snapping them off as she fled. By the time the dead branches hit the ground, she was gone. I continued on.
When I arrived at the central portion of the property, I stumbled upon a second herd of deer standing in the dense woods. I heard a deer bark and saw shadowy figures running northeast as I walked north. It was difficult to see the herd as they ran between the trees. Peering deep into the forest as I walked perpendicular to the deer created a strange parallax effect, since the trees far away appeared to move more slowly than the trees closest to me. Within ten seconds, the forest reverted to its silence.
When I reached my destination, I sat down and looked out into the empty ravine. It was almost dark and as my day ended; the forest was just starting up for the night. Today, I reached out to several family members who were affected by the recent loss of my aunt. It was good to reconnect with them and we passed phone numbers of other family members, all genuinely appreciative of having a moment to speak after so many years. That’s the odd thing about death and funerals. Having to stop and come to grips with saying goodbye also creates an opportunity to reconnect, revitalize, and strengthen familial bonds. Because of my aunt’s passing, I had rekindled my relationship with over a dozen family members. The highest tribute we can pay to someone’s memory was having their life make a positive difference in the way we carried on.