The Impossible Infinity of Green
I’m walking around Fresh Pond this morning. As I entered the path, the sprinklers popped up in the parking lot and caught a young man sitting on the curb off guard. He leapt up, laughing—just one of those unexpected moments that breaks up the day. The light is strange and beautiful: bright green summer leaves glowing in early sunshine, while dark clouds linger from last night’s windy storm. Cinematic. I’ll try to capture it.
A thing I have noticed: middle-aged men, sometimes a little older, populating these early morning spaces—coffee shops and trails. Not all partnered, not all unpartnered, but driven by something. I should say “us.” Or “we.” There is some pull—maybe a search, maybe just the habit of getting out early with no clear purpose but to be in motion.
The wind is cool on my back as I walk. It adds to a feeling I’ve had for a while: that I’ll do just fine in retirement. People often doubt that, assume I’ll struggle without work, without a sense of purpose. But I don’t think my sense of value is tied to a job anymore. At least not a corporate job at behemoths like Amazon.
People make a living doing what I’m doing today. A walk, some writing, and always learning. I think I could certainly make a retirement of it, but I would love to make a living of it. I might feel differently in midwinter, when the headwind is biting, but today it feels good, it feels right.
There are trees along the trail that lean out over the water like a side ponytail—living like that for a while, then eventually succumbing to gravity, slowly pulled back in. Just like us, I suppose. Up in the trees, birds are huddled together off the water. As they take flight, the wind pushes them back at first, but they keep going, almost as if they don’t notice or don’t care. They move through it.
I’ve been listening to podcasts lately about emotion—especially how to feel joy and pain fully, and then move on, rather than letting them linger and fester. There’s an idea that by experiencing emotions completely, we avoid carrying them all day. It’s a work in progress.
If you’ve ever wondered how a color in a paint store can have so many options, just take a walk down a path in the early summer. You’ll get it. There’s an impossible infinity of green in the trees and bushes and grass, each with its own shade and shimmer.
And of course there are dogs on the trail. People love dogs for many reasons, but I think it’s their seeming ability to give unconditional love that draws us in. Aside from children, there aren’t many beings we can love—or be loved by—so freely. Yes, we are their source of food, and that might play a role, but dogs are always in the moment. They stop when something interests them, chase when they’re excited, and then come back, ready to keep moving. On this path in Cambridge, dogs are allowed to be off-leash. It’s the perfect place for them. They stay in their space, we stay in ours. Or maybe we’d be better off in theirs. Maybe that’s where the connection lies—with their experience, with their presence.
More people are trickling onto the trail now—some younger folks, more young women than men. It shifts the tone slightly, feels like the day turning.
If I had to describe how I feel after a walk like this, it’s a complementary mix: energy and calm. “Peace” is the first word that comes to mind, though it feels insufficient—too common. It’s more of a restfulness, a quiet settling. I’m sure better words will come.
I’ve been thinking that maybe the book I’ll write someday will be a record of one long walk, which is, in a way, what life is. I admire how Craig Mod used his walks to story in Things Become Other Things. I might do something like that—or something completely different. There’s a balance to be struck between structure and drift.
For now, I’ll keep walking. I’ll post these individual thoughts and trails as they come. And if, someday, I write that book, I’ll look back, gather the themes, and shape a path. Maybe even imagine alternate ones.
