The sun has gone but not completely: we are in that in-between state of dusk, when there’s just enough light to see the fallen leaves and the neighbour’s rose still in bloom. Is that a stone Buddha or a package left by a courier by someone’s door? I look down the grassy slope to see trees have fallen in a recent storm, suddenly they are in a collapsed heap of brittleness. Walking on, someone is closing their curtains to hide their huge flat screen telly that hangs in place of a painting above their mantle. Most people have yet to close their curtains and so now is the time you can, if you are nosy like me, peer inside rooms and see just how other people live. A woman is ironing whilst watching a screen. A room is filled with greenish light from a vast tank (does it have fish or reptiles?) There are bedrooms with fairy lights and security lights flick on and off as I walk by; a black cat looks at me with one weary eye and crosses the road.
Walking is my primary exercise - I need to get up and move, as so much of my work is done sitting down. I need to move to think with a different perspective. I need to shift the scenery before my eyes.
In the late spring and summer months I enjoy getting up early to walk, exercise before the sun is warm. Maybe as early as six am, I will be walking up and down the hilly neighbourhood. There is a bright peace and the bird song keeps me company. But now, now it is autumn into winter and dusk is my preferred walking time. This is a different mood, darker. I am contemplative yet not lingering about. My brisk walk keeps me warm and I am wary of strange shadows, as I have always been walking as night falls. I remember, as a teenager, feeling followed home from school or work. That feeling of needing to escape my own footsteps and knowing I can’t run fast enough.
I feel safe here, in my neighbourhood, with its curvaceous roads and neatly trimmed hedges. But there will always be a part of me that is on edge, not quite relaxed enough to wander down a darker alleyway.
It has become a habit, lately, to walk to the post box after sunset and before the collection time of 5 pm. I take a slightly different route, some days more meandering than other days, weather depending. I have letters to post, orders of zines and postcards (thank you). I know I need to catch up with my letter writing to a few friends. And I would like to send you a postcard too, or a Christmas card perhaps. So maybe, if I have your address you may be hearing from me during the dark weeks ahead - through the winter, as I continue to walk out in the twilight.
If I have something to post then it keeps me walking. Over the weeks ahead I will observe the neighbourhood slowly lighting up with festive glow. There will be decorated trees, of various tastes and vintage, on display in windows - from the classic red and green with coloured lights to something modern with cool sparkle, And outside in front gardens I anticipate trees lit magically, as if there is nothing to fear in this world. Look, the decorated bright things proclaim: there is joy to be had and electricity in abundance! Fear not.
There is a ritual rhythm to my walking. Am I inspecting the neighbourhood? Keeping it a little safer with my footsteps? I know some people see me, might they notice how often I pass by their window and what then? Do they wonder if I am simply walking without purpose. Or, maybe she’s feeding a cat, or checking on someone, or filling the post box with letters again. I am simply like anyone else, walking to somewhere and back again, glad to be home again.
One evening I may arrive home with a memory of a woman stood by a window, ironing a shirt. One evening I arrive home and I have a golden leaf in my pocket, like I’ve found a ticket to elsewhere.
Thank you for reading.
I am also a walker, have been for years. When we lived in town I loved wandering the many streets of old houses and, like you, warming to the amber colored light that shone through the windows at dawn or dusk. I told myself stories about who lived there (past or present) and what life was like within those walls. They were like chapters for a book that I thought I might write, calling it “I Imagine Lives”. In fact, I did write a prose poem about a particular house that had been condemned as part of a renovation project. I published it on blurb, complete with all the photographs I took over the months that it sat there looking forlorn. It’s been gone for quite some time now, replaced by a modern three story apartment building, but I will always have a record of what once stood there.
Walking connects us to our landscapes, urban or rural. Now my walks are most often out on open space recreational trails, admiring the grand vistas of the Rocky Mountains under bluebird skies with seasonal colors. However, my favorite walks are the ones I take around our property every morning just after feeding the horses and donkeys. The angle of light, the grasses and birds and trees, all make me feel at home and fascinate me each and every day.
I enjoyed reading this comment with my morning tea, thanks so much for taking the time to share