I miss the turnoff for Parkville. It’s not even a turnoff, really; it’s more of a keep-going-in-a-straight-line, in order to get to a park I’ve visited exactly 100 million and three times previously. Driving in a straight line now involves two U-turns, a sharp right, and a shit-shit-shit.
I don’t want to go.
I don’t want to go—by myself.
Trying to make peace with spending time alone, I’ve had dates with myself at art museums and a bookstore. I was awkward. I tripped over my feet, which made me self-conscious, which made me mad, which gave me a headache. I want to get better at being alone. So, like learning a new song, I’m determined to learn how to enjoy my own company.
I circle the parking lot until a spot opens up between pickups that have left barely enough room for me to squeeze out of my door. Autumn is serving up it’s best menu: blue sky, puffball clouds, orange leaves. A lady joger pushes a stroller full of gurgling baby. A cyclist weaves past, beagle in tow, while a live band plays classic Beatles. The day is so sweet it makes my teeth hurt.
I’m hungry. Should have stopped for a snack.
I trudge past the bandstand toward the riverfront trail and stare at the muddy current. The river parallels the trail, which parallels the narrow park, which parallels the railroad tracks—stripes in the landscape.
Hard packed gravel makes for an easy stroll. I’ll plod along for an hour.
My jacket’s too hot.
The music grows fainter. “She loves you … yeah yeah, yeah.” Like passing through a doorway, one more step crosses me from human song to birdsong. These hiking boots hurt my feet. How the hell am I supposed to walk for an hour?
Who says you have to walk, Dawn?
I sit in the sun on a bench. Maybe meditation will dull my aversion. I pop in earbuds and start up the Insight Timer app on my phone. The guided nature meditation instructs me to imagine being in this locale during winter. I see families building snowmen together. … Imagine it in spring. I imagine old friends sharing gardening secrets. … Imagine summer. I see two gents in fishing hats comparing stories. … Imagine it in the fall. I see me, turning to share a story idea with—no one. No one's there.
A freight train roars down the tracks behind me. The engine drowns out the meditation. I pluck the earbuds, slip the phone into a pocket. The train's vibration rumbles through my spine, My shoulders ease.
A sand barge is moored midstream and squats there like a stubborn old woman. The river slips around it, unfazed. Ripple after ripple flows by, each indistinguishable from the next, as though the scene is on a loop. Hitching a ride into non-existence, an instant in time floats away on every swell. Opaque and silent, the current sweeps everything with it. Nothing is excluded. Nothing is less than.
I relax against the back of the bench.
A branch glides downstream, and I wonder how long till it glides past again, the loop replaying.
From down the trail, two women approach. I tug my hat brim down to avoid hello. I want this all to myself.
I want this all to myself?
They chatter past me.
The realization slips in, quiet as the muddy current. I like sitting … watching the river … by myself.
Alone, I can watch for as long as I want.
Alone, I feel the absence of noise, inside and out.
I swing around to stretch out, my feet propped up on the bench arm. A single cirrus crawls across the sky. Amid the lazy sway of limbs nudged by the breeze, a pulsing movement high up in the branches grabs my attention. Tap-tap-tap-tap. A blue and white woodpecker. I’ve seldom been able to spot a woodpecker after hearing its staccato solo in the distance. The sound seems to come from all directions at once. This is a rare treat, one I’ve earned by being still.
The woodpecker flits down from the canopy to knock on a maple that’s close enough for me to count feathers, then zips away, knowing I prefer to be alone.
I don’t want to go.
I don’t want to go—by myself.
Trying to make peace with spending time alone, I’ve had dates with myself at art museums and a bookstore. I was awkward. I tripped over my feet, which made me self-conscious, which made me mad, which gave me a headache. I want to get better at being alone. So, like learning a new song, I’m determined to learn how to enjoy my own company.
I circle the parking lot until a spot opens up between pickups that have left barely enough room for me to squeeze out of my door. Autumn is serving up it’s best menu: blue sky, puffball clouds, orange leaves. A lady joger pushes a stroller full of gurgling baby. A cyclist weaves past, beagle in tow, while a live band plays classic Beatles. The day is so sweet it makes my teeth hurt.
I’m hungry. Should have stopped for a snack.
I trudge past the bandstand toward the riverfront trail and stare at the muddy current. The river parallels the trail, which parallels the narrow park, which parallels the railroad tracks—stripes in the landscape.
Hard packed gravel makes for an easy stroll. I’ll plod along for an hour.
My jacket’s too hot.
The music grows fainter. “She loves you … yeah yeah, yeah.” Like passing through a doorway, one more step crosses me from human song to birdsong. These hiking boots hurt my feet. How the hell am I supposed to walk for an hour?
Who says you have to walk, Dawn?
I sit in the sun on a bench. Maybe meditation will dull my aversion. I pop in earbuds and start up the Insight Timer app on my phone. The guided nature meditation instructs me to imagine being in this locale during winter. I see families building snowmen together. … Imagine it in spring. I imagine old friends sharing gardening secrets. … Imagine summer. I see two gents in fishing hats comparing stories. … Imagine it in the fall. I see me, turning to share a story idea with—no one. No one's there.
A freight train roars down the tracks behind me. The engine drowns out the meditation. I pluck the earbuds, slip the phone into a pocket. The train's vibration rumbles through my spine, My shoulders ease.
A sand barge is moored midstream and squats there like a stubborn old woman. The river slips around it, unfazed. Ripple after ripple flows by, each indistinguishable from the next, as though the scene is on a loop. Hitching a ride into non-existence, an instant in time floats away on every swell. Opaque and silent, the current sweeps everything with it. Nothing is excluded. Nothing is less than.
I relax against the back of the bench.
A branch glides downstream, and I wonder how long till it glides past again, the loop replaying.
From down the trail, two women approach. I tug my hat brim down to avoid hello. I want this all to myself.
I want this all to myself?
They chatter past me.
The realization slips in, quiet as the muddy current. I like sitting … watching the river … by myself.
Alone, I can watch for as long as I want.
Alone, I feel the absence of noise, inside and out.
I swing around to stretch out, my feet propped up on the bench arm. A single cirrus crawls across the sky. Amid the lazy sway of limbs nudged by the breeze, a pulsing movement high up in the branches grabs my attention. Tap-tap-tap-tap. A blue and white woodpecker. I’ve seldom been able to spot a woodpecker after hearing its staccato solo in the distance. The sound seems to come from all directions at once. This is a rare treat, one I’ve earned by being still.
The woodpecker flits down from the canopy to knock on a maple that’s close enough for me to count feathers, then zips away, knowing I prefer to be alone.