Calibrating the Longest Night

I thought I might log a short walk the other night. It was a shrug type of decision. I could go or not. There was near complete cloud cover hanging in the sky, so the draw of the starry cosmos wasn’t a motivator. Instead, we were expecting a rainy period starting the next day, so might as well get some fresh dry air while I can, is what I figured.

I love a night walk. Over the years, I lived in spots that were uneventful. Uneventful is the price you pay for a place that will produce a lovely night stroll. But I also lived in NYC which is decidedly eventful and produces a lovely night stroll too, so what do I know? In any case, I slid arms into coat, topped head with fleece, and yanked front door shut behind me. Off I strolled, which meant I was nonchalant. I don’t think the proper stroll identifies at all with the insistent march. These entities live in different worlds, run in different circles. The march is for accomplishment so you can put your stamp on it. A stroll is for contemplation so you can try to put your finger on it. Both have their ways.

The ‘fresh air’ motivator wasn’t the whole story, truth be told. I wanted to escape the steady tick of quiet in my house. I figured I’d surround myself with the sounds a stroll makes: car engines in the distance, airplanes descending into town, bird chatter, leaf rattles, the scuff of my shoes, my breath. Any sound at all was an improvement, a happening, over a silent house.

The sky was low and gray, sort of a puffed dark prelude for the coming rain. The light from Washington DC in the distance will infuse a low night sky and turn it into a mixed-up pinkish-gray confusion. It’s like sitting under a black July sky and the fireworks suddenly light up everyone’s faces. For a millisecond your brain’s like, Wait, what? It's not what you expect of the night.

I watched the trajectory of the clouds. It looked like they had somewhere to be, but I had nowhere to be with no one expecting me—this being the very soul of the stroll. I crossed the road and wandered down a neighboring street. Holiday lights were ablaze on the properties to the left and right. I was having a little tour. Not as many lights up, I noticed, this year versus last. Last year brought the exterior light displays out in full force around here. “Damned be to the virus!” everyone was saying. It was the best kind of solidarity. It made for some magnificent night strolls. Combined with glimpses of shining menorahs and Diwali lights dressing front entrances, these nocturnal lights have turned this darkened period of the year into one of reassurance.

I walked further along the neighborhood streets, hands in my pockets now and then, looking around, checking out the homes I was passing. Lots of interior lights were on. The neighborhood seemed to be teeming with houses full of activity, and suddenly this got me to feeling solitary. I assumed there were people gathering inside each of these homes, with veritable midweek parties buzzing around dinner pots and plates. Families full and present. I assumed something I didn’t know anything about, which is an assumption alright. No doubt some of these homes were as quiet as mine.

This is around the time I started to come upon other night walkers. I wasn’t the only one with the idea to get outside before the rain. I waved to the gentleman quietly passing me with glow-in-the-dark headphones. I could discern him cheerfully waving back thanks to his amusing green head glow. That’s a Martian by golly, I thought. Further down, I passed a slow-moving woman on the sidewalk under the streetlight. She had her head bent down, but when I said ‘hello’ she lifted her head and gave me a big smile. Eventually I noticed a pair of teens chattering on and on about some such thing. I wiggled my fingers at them, and they nodded while chatting.

Normally I don’t see so many folks out at night, but that night us walkers were having a veritable party in the beautiful night air. It was parties everywhere, inside, outside, and nowhere at all. It occurred to me that folks are doing so many things, not one thing. Some are inside cooking and telling their housemates tales about their days. Some are outside taking a stroll to supplant the quiet stillness inside. Some are in hospital beds like some folks I know. Some are at the grocery store shopping for food, while others are at night school, working hard to get ahead. Some have the TV chattering in the background of their evening, while others are at the gym bouncing around to Zumba class tunes. And some are working their swing shifts at the very same moment that others are deeply asleep because they are just wee babies and haven’t quite started all this life business. It just depends.

Walking further down the street under a thickening sky, I reminded myself that some folks right now are grappling with so much, others are peaceful, some are thrilled, and some are depressed. And eventually all of this rotates, and we swap positions and experience another side of life: happy, sad, joyful, depressed, peaceful, anxious, stomping mad, wide-open grateful. At some point we feel it all as we make our way around the wheel of life.

There are two wheels. The outer wheel is big and slow-moving and makes one single revolution. That’s the wheel of life. In the middle is a smaller wheel that spins round and round and round. This is the wheel of experience. Every day it spins around. Every day we land somewhere along it. We manage the inner wheel--some days we do it better, some worse--while time manages the outer.

I took out my phone and clicked on Spotify for a little theme music. A wistful guitar intro to a song began to fill up the air space that hovered around me. The guitar picking was gentle and fell like feathers onto the ground in my wake. It was so pretty but also a bit melancholy. I tipped my head to the side. Do I really want this right now? It matched too closely my low-key home across the way. Nah. Let’s choose something razzmatazz.

I rummage through the offerings. Ah. Perfect. I clicked on the song. It started with its zippy tempo, and the instruments revved up my pace. I did a jitterbug with the shoulders to get the rhythm going. It was only music, but music is a lot, isn’t it? It can take your dull mood and stir life into it, sending it into flight like Fred-Astaire butterflies tap dancing into the air. It also puts babies to sleep and buries the dead. It does hundreds or thousands of things, all of which are mood altering, so take your pick.

As I turned around and started back toward my house, I passed the glowy guy from outer space. He seemed to have a little jig in his step too, or maybe I was projecting, or hoping for his sake. This is a complicated time of year--with too much going on, or too little. It’s contemplative at times; busy at others. I find a little walk at night can calibrate and equilibrate those tendencies, smoothing my viewpoint into an acceptance of the simple fact of what is. The beauty of this is that then I can begin the process of gratitude for all of what is, and what isn’t.

By the time I arrived back at home I caught a brief view of Venus through an opening in the pink sky cover. “Hello, you,” I whispered. It winked at me. I winked back. That night there were glittering lights and parties, clouds and planets, walkers and sleepers, a possible Martian.

Oh, what a lovely short walk on a very long night.