The Walking, and Constantly

It seems, that with my commitment to the 3-day, comes a focus on walking. I was going through some old scribbles of mine, old poetry and lyrics, and it occured to me how many involve or are centered around walking. I've been headed toward this for 45 years now, ever since I took my first stumbling baby step.
the walking and constantly
an endless stream of endless dreams
that wheel and roll just past my shoulder
the waiting and constantly
an endless shift of sifting through
the facts, the fey
you never know for sure
i was sure until they asked me
now i don't know
all i know is something touched me
shadows lift my fingers
don't let the cold...
every now and then things become clear
there's nothing that will bring you back
there's nothing that will change this fact
there's nothing that i will take back
i know i know
this is a fact
i'm pretty sure i know
i don't know i don't know i...
~Jane Siberry, The Walking

That song was one of my first introductions to Jane Siberry's music and it's stuck with me through the years. It haunts.

I came home from work yesterday, and I didn't really want to go out and march, but I forced myself. Yet another circumstance where my stubbornness comes into play for the good. If I tell myself I don't want to, I'll dig in and make myself do it. I'm just weird that way. So I laced up and headed out, through the neighborhood, down to the lake. Down to where the ducks flew in a squabble to land with a "shhhhh" on the water, past blooming crocuses and irises, to the water's edge and then out on the boardwalk where it was just the water and the looming clouds scuttling over the Seattle skyline. I had a stare-down with a blue heron. I whispered the names of those I've lost to any kind of cancer, my prayer for strength to the universe: Cindy... Margaret... Dad... Mary... Tom Sr... Dick... Roxan... John... This is proving to be an emotional endeavor so far. I can only imagine what the 60 mile walk will generate within me. I think the well is going to be dug even deeper by the time it's all over with.

And then I turned and started the return walk up the big hill on 116th St. It near 'bout whupped my ass. It's a helluva hill. About a quarter of the way into it, I felt myself flagging, and then Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here" came on the iPod... John's song. I kept going.
How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have you found? The same old fears.
Wish you were here.
~Pink Floyd, Wish You Were Here

I felt good by the time I got home. Really good. I even (proudly) have my first blister - a big nasty on my right foot (note to self: invest in better socks). I found myself smiling as I popped it, slathered it with goo and wrapped it in a bandage. War wounds are proof of surviving battle.
the walking and constantly
an endless stream of endless dreams
that wheel and roll just past my shoulder