Walking Through A Wild Winter Squall: A Metaphor for Life

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Mama Weather gifted me a delight wrapped in cold and topped with an icy bow the other day. I knew it was coming, so I dressed for the occasion. Then out the door, I went.

At first, the scene was half and half — the eastern half of the sky clear and bright, the western half foreboding and darker with each step. I was excited because we never get snow anymore and this was the first of two expected storms to come over the next week. Northern Virginia is a sad snow story as the planet gets toastier. The week would be a diversion from these no-snow blues.

I walked chipper and hyperaware of the sky to my left. It looked sinister. I seemed vulnerable. It was a gift. I love weather. Onto the local trail I turned as the dormant wooded surroundings lured me into their gray-brown drowsy-winter beauty.

In just minutes the stunning display would begin — my delight.

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I love to walk. Rather, I love to traverse on foot. I used to run, but now I traipse. I love to pass through the outdoors, woven with sidewalk, street, or dirt trail, littered with wild animal or human, covered with cloud or bright sky. If there’s weather, bring it. If you have the proper gear, you can make your way through most any conditions. You need water, good feet, knees, and hips, and a mind that loves to think, dance, or space out while moving forward.

When I walk, I’m happier than when I don’t.

During my lowest times, I walked to make sense of it all. I’d think out loud and meticulously try to process what was before me. Sometimes I ruminated, but after a deep dive into the mental abyss, I’d turn on music and walk-dance — walk with the legs and dance with the arms. Music is often the final cleanse as the ground cycles away from me, just like my troubles — at least for the length of the walk, and this is a step toward healing — finding relief from the hole-boring emotions long enough to regroup and reassess.

During my highest times, I walked to celebrate, contain, and pay gratitude. This often spurred me to think creatively about how I could give back since I had extra. Extra happiness gives birth to extra bandwidth which can be shared. Walking can be a facilitator for this.

Walking isn’t only about the legs, you know.

If you’re able to walk, it’s easy to do. We already do it every day. We walk to the refrigerator, to the sink with the toothbrush, the washing machine, and the clothes closet. And the couch — and TV. We walk from our car or the subway to the store and back. We walk to work — a place somewhere other than our home or within it.

Let’s face it — we walk.

And since we do, we’re equipped to walk outside, too, and this is such good news. Something so beautiful, so circadian rhythm-friendly — a question generator, a teacher — is fully stocked outside our doors every single day. All we need to do is open the door and step out.

My upright journeys on two feet have taken me to all the places.

Lately, I walk around my neighborhood where I come upon Mango, the region’s most beloved Doberman Pincer. He walks like a furry guru of loving calm with his friendly owners. If there’s no walking, there’s no Mango.

I used to traverse the ground for decades and see deer. Until recently, they’d sprint away long before I made it close to them. But now there’s been a shift in the deer’s perspective. It seems they value curious observation of me over swift leaps to safety — so I try to give them plenty of reason to stare.

Hey, you guys. Whazzup? Don’t worry about me. I’m just walking past you here, the weird creature I am. And guess what? A snow squall is coming. What do y’all do for a squall? Go under a bush? Be safe!

Then I wave as they stare as if they’d just witnessed an alien — which they did.

I’ve walked with good friends on mountains, with family on sidewalks, with my sons on city streets and rural trails, with my neighbor on our local roads, and with memories of times past and thoughts of times to come. I’ve walked and talked with the phone stuck to my ear, or stuck in my front jacket pocket playing soft tunes. One time, I walked lost in the cold winter on a mountain in shorts after I sprained my ankle on a 40-mile run with no headlamp. My friends almost called Search & Rescue to find me. Long story.

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I continued along the circular trail that creates a rim around a sunken basin of deciduous flora — green in Spring, brown in Winter. One side of the rim is higher, turning the rim and its basin into a tilted bowl of nature.

When you’re walking along the lower side of the rim trail, the trees fringing the opposite side become towering creatures. They stand in a line on the horizon with the sky behind them, which accentuates their stature. Are they a group of friends? An army? The Woodsy Rockettes?

It was through these leafless trees that I could see a storm coming. It was menacing though exciting. I was fully equipped with all my diva gear and warm stuff — enough to outfit both myself and the deer. That’s me — a worrywart-prepared walker, and I like it this way. Whether we got snow, sleet, or even a mix of cold rain, I’d be fine, especially since I wasn’t far from home.

Then suddenly, with no hint of a speck of a first errant flake, the forest and I were deluged with a downpour of bouncy sleet balls. They bounced off everything — my hat, the ground, the dead logs, the live branches. It was as noisy as it was stunning. Then the first crack of thunder hit — a massive crash of sound waves. “Oh crap!"

My carefree ramble turned serious. I gotta get out of here!

I scrambled to make my way home while the rare event of a winter thunderstorm played out as a shock to the rest of the walkers I passed. “What’s this?!” we called out to each other, “Be safe!”

The wind picked up and bellowed through the trees. I walked fast while taking the spectacle in. I loved the excitement, but I’m no fool. Home was best in these circumstances. Yet, as I made my way home, I realized that walking is a metaphor for life. I can come prepared to the best of my ability and see how things play out. I can  do what I can to make it from point A to point B — but snow squalls will pop in sometimes. The snow will do what it will do. So, I’ll do what I can — first assess, then choose, and finally act.

It’s good to have the proper jacket and gloves, water and walking shoes. It’s good to hightail it home when the thunder rages above. It’s good to walk out the door and experience what I can, come what may. Nature, like life, is a beautiful, scary, tenuous, inspiring learning experience.

Step by step. Storm by storm. Deer by deer. I love to walk.

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Hope you're doing well, friends.