#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream
Entering the hallway, home from our walk, I felt a pang of regret. I took off my hiking boots, she hung up her jacket. I had just apologized for talking so much. Yes, she agreed, I had talked a lot. But said she didn't mind. We've both been busy, we live in the same house, but my youngest daughter has been asking this week to walk with me. Wake me up, she says, going off to bed.
The first morning I asked, she sleepily declined– rolled over, went back to sleep. But, this morning she got right up, dressed, we took the dogs, and it was chilly, wet, overcast. She's an exceptionally good listener; gives perceptive feedback, supports my feelings, but challenges me when I'm not seeing clearly. And I don't usually talk about what I'm writing when I'm in the middle of writing something, but I'm working on this essay for weeks now, creeping along, and I start telling her all about it, I will let her read it soon, so I don't tell everything, but I'm rambling along, even while we both notice the bright swirling green, disintegrating grass in the swamp, and stop for a better look. I'm so happy she wants to walk with me and spend time with me in the woods.
Truly, she wasn't upset, she was happy to listen to me. But I felt bad and wished for a do over, unsure when we might get the chance to have another in synch moment.
After dinner, the dogs are restless. It's still light out, and warmer, and so they are hinting, looking for signs I might be willing to venture out for an evening stroll in the woods. Yes. I agree. I tell my daughter, who has just finished writing her paper for a class and, remarkably, she says, Oh, I'll go with you.
And so, boots back on, we cross the yard with happy, lucky dogs and there, in the purpling river, is the moon, reflected. Here is my do-over. I do not squander it. It's my chance to listen, and I do, as we walk into the woods at dusk by the light of the moon, she is telling me everything I might have missed, but didn't, as we pass under the canopy of trees in the night.
All photos and text ©Kelly DMar 2018 unless otherwise attributed.