Finding Our Path

Autumn is my partner’s busy season. Johnny’s* a HazMat specialist for a package transit company … lots of people shipping holiday packages and trying to sneak in things they’re not allowed to ship. More packages mean more spills too. And more spills mean more HazMat spills. But autumn is my slow season. People don’t want to talk finance and investing when they’d rather be spending their money on gifts and holiday activities with family. So between the months of September to December, I get home early and he gets home late. It’s nice because I have more time to do domestic maintenance (think dishes, closet organization, and vacuuming), and holiday preparation (cards, shopping, craft projects, and decorating) without anyone getting “in the way,” but I often just miss his company. 

During the rest of the year, we’ve built the habit of walking together around our neighborhood after he gets home from work, as a way to connect with each other, among other things (a bit of physical exercise, reviewing our schedules, discussing issues with the kids, etc.). And although it rains every day here during this season in Portland, and our schedules don’t coordinate as easily this time of year, we try to walk together at least once a week. I treasure these walks, despite the fact that in order to do them now, I have to take a nap earlier in the evening and/or suffer the next day at work for lack of sleep.

By the time Johnny arrives home these days at 10 or 11 p.m., our normally bustling city neighborhood is very dark and quiet. I’ll borrow his fleece jacket and we’ll both bundle up, all round and puffy in layers of sweaters, fuzzy socks, gloves, scarves, and wool caps. When we step out into the night, I make a point to stop and consciously become present with all of my senses before we begin. I try to take in the smell of wood smoke on the damp autumn air, to listen to the sound of our footsteps splashing through the puddles and trampling the wet leaves on the sidewalk, or the crunchy ones, if there’s been an unusually dry day. In between the rains, the leaves make patterns on the sidewalk once the sun has come out to dry them and the wind has blown them all away, but before the next rain comes to wash away the evidence and the cycle repeats itself. The patterns are different on every occasion and I never tire of the new “art” that graces our sidewalk each time I find myself stepping out onto its canvas for these walks.

Some nights, we walk for blocks and blocks and discuss some problem or issue heatedly.