On Walking

I’ve taken to walking most nights after dinner. As I eat generally around seven or eight o’clock, there remains anywhere between a half hour and an hour and a half before the sun sets and the air is still quite warm. Anyone who has any experience with a camera will tell you that dusk provides ideal lighting. It seems to me, although I have no technical proficiency in apertures and shutter-speeds and no serious knowledge on lighting scenarios, that this is because everything is illuminated from the side; shadows fall long on the ground instead of on the trees and buildings, signs and people. Colors are sharper while edges are softer. There is a perfect background against which to capture an image in light that pours in, softly filtered by the angle at which it slices through the atmosphere.
There is an acequia, otherwise known as a “ditch”, which runs perpendicular to the street on which I live a few hundred feet away from my front door. Santa Fe is high desert country. There is normally an inescapable dearth of water in the entirety of the city (and the rest of the state for that matter) which leaves the acequia, for most of the year, rather dry. Yet, this winter was wet and this spring has come and gone with even more rain and as I write this it is, in July, sprinkling outside. Thus, the acequia has been running at varying heights consistently since I moved in at the end of May. The running water, in conjunction with the aforementioned virtues of evening lighting, presents the most pleasant, subtly (and therefore inoffensively) pastoral setting for my newly discovered hobby.
For reasons that are too complicated and most disagreeable to enumerate here, I have been induced these past few weeks to walk alone. I have spent many mornings, afternoons and evenings in the company of only my own food, books and, on occasion, a glass of wine. It was in the restlessness of solitude that I was first moved to explore the extent of the neighborhood’s most salient natural wonder. I do not intend to demean the neighborhood by asserting that its most prominent feature is a seldom running creek, for even the less prominent features of the place are laudable, but I will insist upon emphasizing the absence of running water in the town (thereby the consistent water flow recently has been a distinguished blessing) and the unpretentious quaintness of the acequia (so naturally does it fit within the adobe walls of the houses around it and long grass alongside it) so as to illustrate its importance. My walks turn about the trickle or rush of water first upstream as I walk to the east and then downstream as I return home, catching the very end of the sunset.
I have only shared this activity with one companion. She is much older than I am and considerably shorter in height, but not on that account shorter in stature. Her name is Billie and her height, which might otherwise be a disadvantage, is for the walk along the acequia the very essence of advantage. Her head is situated perfectly at the average height of the flowers and bushes lining the water and she therefore has an intimate view of the water itself. She dutifully explores the surrounding flora (trees, bushes, flowers) and fauna (me) as we walk. She tends to take her time. I often forget to enjoy myself, lost in some thought and taking little notice of what is around me. She never wanders too far behind me (being less impatient, though I am learning from her to take just a little more time). We became acquainted through a house-sitting job. I needed to walk her and I had spent most every night walking along the acequia in my own neighborhood. Though I was a bit reluctant at first to share my most treasured moment of self indulgent brooding, I ultimately caved in and took her along to join me. She is cordial without pandering, reserved but not rude. Her atmosphere as she slides through the grass or trots along to catch up with me immediately provided no hindrance to my pensiveness but it did suggest a different, and very welcome, tone of thinking.
Of the fine things in life, good companionship may come a close second behind only perhaps love. And by love I mean the kind that inspires purpose in your life while simultaneously depriving it of any purpose but itself, the kind for which you do rash and radical things without any account or reason, the kind which employs the eloquence of poets because only such people have the mind to construct sentences on the occasion of such emotions. That kind of love is perhaps the greatest good. But that kind of love ultimately, in its consummation, prepares you for death. It allows you to release your self and your life and, in surrendering yourself to another, prepares you to die. Good companionship, however, prepares you for life. Good companionship brings your purpose close to you, turns your frivolity, your idleness, your daydreaming into purposeful, fulfilling moments. Activities that would be otherwise dull and pointless become integral to a happy day. Moments that otherwise seem ideal for melancholy become ideal for laughing.
The companionship with animals reminds us of nature, reminds us that we are not merely human, that we are not godly nor bestial but part of a continuous world. Our anthropomorphizing of animals may come from our egos but I would rather think that it comes from our desire to be a part of nature, to identify something outside of us with us and thereby to incorporate ourselves into it. It comes from the desire to share and Billie and my walks are testament to this. I don’t talk, she doesn’t bark. We smile and smell things together but we are too focused on each other to get distracted by other walkers. Her excitement is clear in her jumpy composure when we get into the truck; it is the only moment wherein she actually pushes me out of the way as she jumps into the cab. My excitement is, as far as I can tell, clear to her in my insistence in our going every night.
Were she to be able to speak, I don’t think that Billie would talk very much. I doubt that she would use words like “laudable” and “anthropomorphizing”. I would probably overcompensate for her age and demeanor by talking too much and embarrassing myself. Her despondence would most certainly irk me, and her jumping into the bathtub at the sound of thunder would probably be awkward for both of us were she to be a human being. Yet, I enjoy thinking that we could be rather different and that that might make our companionship, in its non-hypothetical, current status, all the more praiseworthy. She watches me, I watch her. She points out something in the brush, I point out something in the trees. Her concern for my wellbeing as we walk is a pleasant reminder that it is best, sometimes, not to walk alone.