Taking a Long Walk
Sometimes, I need to take a long walk alone and listen to sad songs. I woke up today feeling bad for no particular reason. I didn’t want to reach out to friends or family. I didn’t want to go out. I didn’t really want anything. So around 5 p.m., I decided to take a walk.
It’s 81 degrees (F) in Pittsburgh right now, so humid your whole body feels as if it’s been dipped in a lukewarm bath the moment you step outside. I wore a tank top tucked into a pair of my mother’s Levi jeans. These jeans are probably older than I am, but still sturdy, still good. My mom and I, at 29 years old, could have swapped a lot of clothes; at least I have a few pair of Levi’s she wore in the 90s to support this claim. But within a few minutes, I regretted wearing them. I could feel the sweat start to gather under my thighs and around my knee caps. Maybe I wanted some discomfort, though, because I kept walking through the bus way tunnel onto the other side of Wilkinsburg. I kept walking up the hill for a whole half mile until I reached Frick Park. Yesterday, when the sky cleared after a beautiful summer thunderstorm, I ran to Frick and had all of the paths to myself. I wasn’t so lucky today. Besides, when I got to its edge I lost the desire to go further. I didn’t want to see anyone, especially not people I didn’t know.
I walked for about 2 miles or just under, maybe 45-50 minutes. I’ve finally sprung for Spotify Premium after years of gritting my teeth through the ad-filled free version. It was a little joy to be able to listen to whatever song I wanted, whenever I wanted, and I mean that in the most genuine sense. I put on a playlist of what I’ll call my “contemplative songs,” which happen to be about loss and heartbreak and longing. I run to this kind of playlist often. It’s a great way to think through whatever melancholy I’m sitting with and can’t name. It’s a great way to think about writing, too, especially if you’re working on an emotionally heavy piece. Maybe it’s about your mother and her Levi jeans. Maybe it’s about your father and the way he used to talk about his family’s summer cottage. Maybe it’s about you in a way you haven’t quite figured out yet. You’ll need a few more runs, or long walks, for it to take shape or have a name.
It’s okay for me to hold space for these feelings, however bad or uncomfortable. I came back from my walk to find both of my cats on the daybed I set up in my apartment’s sunroom, the only spot that gets any kind of good light. I laid down beside them and let myself go limp, corpse pose, looking up at the corner of the ceiling, still listening to music. I sat there a long time just feeling bad. Then I got up and started writing this.
I don’t think there’s a take away or sound bite to share. If there is one, maybe you can name it.
