It’s Tuesday, and I’m still recovering from Sunday’s hike with son #2.
This is the new rhythm of my life lately.
Back in August, we started to drag each other out of our self-imposed isolation and onto the trails surrounding our city.
I believe that nature is a one-size-fits-all cure for many of our ailments – including that dangerously slippery slope of nostalgia for the ‘good old days’ – like the beginning of the year before any of us gave any thought to pandemics.
I don’t have grandchildren, so I’m just beginning to learn the lesson of what happens to one’s aging body when they start to play with someone considerably younger.
Misha is half my age, with a tall and lean body that eats up the trail effortlessly. My poke-along speed doesn’t seem to bother him a bit, but his youthful energy inspires that competitive side of me to push a little harder for a little longer.
I pay the price later … like every time I get up from a chair. My body creaks and moans, whines and complains.
Muscle groups I haven’t heard from since my marathon days have been sending me warning messages … but what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. Right?
While my head is cast upwards at the grandness of nature at her fullest, marvelling over every gloriously yellowed tree we encounter, Misha is lost in the detail of the forest floor.
We each find what we need in these hours on the trail – sometimes over long conversations, but often in a comfortable silence. We are so alike, in our very different ways.
I’m reminded that nature’s energy also waxes and wanes.
A waterfall I remembered from January as a wild torrent in winter …
… is now only a sedate trickle in autumn after an unusually hot and dry summer.
Perhaps nature too is feeling her age.