But Still, I Walk
By J. Adrian Betancourt
I went for a walk in the park today.
The same walk as yesterday,
and the day before that,
and so on.
There is a large pond in my park,
with a winding path that wraps around it.
It is on this path that I walk.
Three laps.
No more, no less.
Three laps, that is my routine.
One must have structure in life.
And so I start walking.
My legs are sore from an earlier workout,
but nonetheless,
I walk.
Left foot, right foot,
left foot, right foot
and so on.
New Age music plays softly
through my bone-conducting headset,
A haunting Navajo flute pierces my soul,
and already, I feel at peace.
It is an overcast day,
a light breeze moving through the air,
cooling what would otherwise be a warm morning.
And so,
I walk.
And as I do, I begin to notice things.
A squirrel darting from tree to tree,
industriously doing whatever it is squirrels are wont to do.
Two white ducks approach me,
remains of what used to be a trio
that I once named Huey, Louie and Dewey.
Not sure which one of them met his untimely end, much less how.
Poor thing.
They waddle over, as they often do,
hoping I might have something to give.
I do not.
Still, I greet them.
“Good morning,” in English,
and jokingly in duck speak: “quack, quack, quack.”
With nothing to offer,
they waddle away.
And still,
I walk.
There are people too, of course.
It is a public park, after all,
not some quiet, isolated forest.
Some meander alone.
Others in pairs.
Some in silence,
others in conversation.
There are families setting up
for parties in the shelters lining the pond...
baby showers,
gender reveals,
picnics…
This pond has borne witness to
many a life celebration.
And the joggers,
they are here too, of course.
Pounding the pavement
in hopes of losing a pound or two.
That used to be me.
But my aging knees put a stop to that.
So now…
I walk.
Lap two
A flock of long-beaked ibis quietly graze near me,
pecking at the dirt for breakfast,
seemingly unaware
of everything else going on.
Birds sing all around me…
chirping, calling,
layer upon layer of sound.
Easy to ignore
until I decide to listen.
Then suddenly,
it is all I hear.
And still,
I walk.
I look around more carefully now:
The tall Australian pines,
the live oaks bending in quiet grace,
and my favorite…
the banyans,
gnarled and sprawling,
their roots creeping across the ground
like something alive.
A strangler fig wraps itself
around a palm,
slowly, patiently,
until, one day, the palm is no more.
And then, there is the pond.
Green and black,
irregular in shape,
an amorphous amoeba.
Still enough to reflect
everything around it
a mirror for the multitude of life it supports.
On the surface,
ducks drift calmly.
Below it…
who knows.
There is life there in the dark water, I know,
But one must use their imagination.
I arrive back where I started.
Lap three.
The soreness has climbed higher now,
to my legs, my hips, my burning glutes
My breath labors more heavily,
My shirt is damp with light sweat.
And still,
I walk.
Monkey brain begins to creep in, now.
Knowing that my walk is nearing its end,
it jostles for control of the reins of my head.
Meetings.
Tasks.
Problems to solve.
They enter my mind
like gnats…
small, persistent,
uninvited.
The to-do list begins to form
whether I want it to or not.
And then…
a hawk.
It crashes into the pond,
sudden and powerful,
snapping me out of my thoughts.
I stop, watch and gawk with an open mouth,
In awe of the scene before me.
I’ve seen this hawk before,
but never like this.
Did it catch something?
A fish?
Do hawks even do that?
A pelican, sure, but a hawk…?
Or is it just bathing or cooling off?
Before I can decide,
it shoots back into the sky,
wings pulling it upward,
higher and higher,
until it disappears.
And just like that,
the moment passes.
The thrill is gone,
as a bygone bluesman used to say.
But still,
I walk.
The clouds are darker now.
Rain is coming.
They said so on the news this morning.
I don’t mind.
I rather like the rain.
Never understood
why people run from it,
as if it were something to fear.
It is just water,
The very thing that sustains life.
As I tell my children,
we are not made of sugar.
We will not melt.
But I digress.
And still,
I walk.
I spot a small child riding a pink bicycle
She is hurdling toward me on her two-wheeled rocket ship;
Its pink and white streamers
thrashing about at the end of each handle
She is moving fast,
completely in the moment.
No thoughts of tomorrow,
no weight of yesterday,
only motion,
only this moment.
Now there is someone
who understands something
we “grown-ups” have forgotten with age.
There is wisdom in children...
in their simplicity and innocence,
their unbridled joy,
their presence.
To be young again…
But still,
I walk.