I remember it as if it happened this morning even though
it was 20 years ago. A simple thing, really, just a walk
with my 3-year-old. But I also remember the struggles
I was feeling, the black mood I was in and the dozens
upon dozens of things I had to do that day. I definitely
did not want to go for a walk.
But it was the first really warm spring day of the year
after a long, bitter-cold Wisconsin winter and Andrew
begged me to walk with him to the park. It’ll tire
him out and then he’ll take a nice long nap and
I can get some things done then, I reasoned.
Andrew scampered out the door. I practically had to jog
to keep up with him. I grumbled for him to slow down,
wondering if this walk was a good idea after all.
When we reached the park he squealed, ‘Let’s
climb up that hill!”
I stalled. “Andrew, there are too many tall weeds.”
“There’s a path!” He was halfway up
before I could protest again.
At the top he started an immediate descent undaunted by
the fact that his 3-year-old legs couldn’t keep
up. Before I could caution him toward a slower pace he’d
fallen face-down, then rolled the length of the hill.
I expected tears and loud wails.
Instead I heard, “Hey, Jill, I went up to get a
pail of water and I fell down and broke my crown!”
His laughter was contagious.
Next he talked me into taking the path into the woods
along a small, meandering creek. We walked in silence
for awhile, stepping on dry twigs and autumn’s left-over
brown leaves. He stopped cold. “Gretel, I think
we’re lost. Did you bring any bread crumbs to drop
on the path? What if the wicked witch gets us?”
I tried to keep from laughing as I kept up the drama.
“Oh, Hansel, the birds ate all the bread crumbs.
You’ll have to take care of that witch if we meet
her.”
We came to the foot bridge that spanned the creek. Andrew
walked across and back again, then scampered down on the
bank underneath the bridge. “Mommy, walk across
the bridge.”
I obeyed, wondering what he was up to now. All at once
came a wee voice, trying to sound mean and ornery. “Who’s
that tramping on my bridge?”
I followed my cue, “It’s just the littlest
Billy goat gruff. Don’t eat me up! My bigger brother
is coming next.”
Walking home, the early afternoon shadows were taller
than we were.
“I’m going to step on your nose, Mommy!”
He smashed his foot down on my shadow.
“Oh, no you don’t!” I jumped up and
down on his shadow. He squealed with delight as he chased
me halfway home.
We passed a dead squirrel on the side of a busy road.
“Why is the squirrel dead, Mommy?”
I went into a long explanation about cars, darting squirrels,
death, afterlife, God and heaven, hoping to ease his troubled
mind.
“That’s OK. He’s just flat. I’ll
make him some new legs out of Play Doh, then he’ll
be OK. Can I have an apple when we get home?”
Before we crossed the street in front of our house Andrew
put his little hand in mine with an adoring look. A loud,
“I love you, Mommy!” burst from his heart.
I scooped him up and smothered him with kisses and hugs.
At that moment I noticed my black mood had lifted. The
fresh air and exercise, coupled with the antics of an
inquisitive 3-year-old turned my gloom-and-doom thoughts
into brighter ones. Those little boy kisses and hugs didn’t
hurt matters either.
I learned a good lesson that afternoon. When I’m
feeling sad, depressed, out of sorts or overwhelmed with
work to do, the best prescription is a walk in the park.
And if you happen to have a wee person who wants to tag
along, all the better. Somehow I think the good Lord meant
for us to solve most of our problems this way, instead
of reaching for yet one more prescription bottle.
Happy trails!
(Lorenz shares her art-of-living words at many professional
speaking events and retreats. E-mail her at <patricialorenz@juno.com>) |
