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Life is relentless, so I take one step at a time

The dark feels deepest when I step out the front door into what remains of night. Long before dawn is the best time to walk — at least where I live, where September temperatures still hover around 80 degrees at 5 a.m.

Walking provides solace. It provides separation, too, and solitude, and of course exercise. It’s simultaneously intentional and mindless because my legs move of their own accord, my feet follow each other, and I need only to allow them. I can also walk as fast as I want, or as slow, though I prefer speed and effort, just to push myself a little.

I don’t walk to go anywhere and, in fact, don’t decide direction until a lap or two around the block. On adventurous days I aim for the distant horizon, anywhere that provides escape. But sometimes not straying far from home is the best I can do.

My morning walks have become a ritual during the pandemic, a reaction to the closing of the gym where I had huffed and puffed my way to fitness for years. Though it has since reopened in a limited way, I’ve not returned out of an abundance of precaution. I miss my gym buddies, the chatter of women who sweat and shower together day after day, but at this particular time in my life, I find isolation to be the best option. There’s a certain clarity that accompanies seclusion.

Since my daughter’s death weeks ago, walking in the dark has become a movable refuge. It has offered a workout that is more mental than physical, more emotional challenge than muscular one. Unfettered by anyone’s concerned looks or well-meaning hugs, I can rage at the world.

And oh, how I rage. I fume at … well, at pretty much everything. I seethe at my own helplessness. I fight with the whys and argue with the what-ifs. The very nature of life, its relentlessness, irritates me. At times tears come, a wet heat like no other. But many days I have nothing to give, and it’s as if my insides have been scoured clean. (In the time of ’rona, I imagine it to be by bleach.) That dry-eyed numbness immunizes me from the passing landscape of suburban homes and manicured yards, the seasonal fragrance of a night-blooming jasmine hedge, even the mugginess that is part of Miami’s early autumn.

But in the end, after all those steps, after all the floundering and flailing, I invariably return to where I began: peeking into that deep well of pain, that fathomless pool of loss and dashed hopes. Because that’s what a too-soon death turns out to be, the surrender of what could have been, what should have been.

Still, walking, or keeping at it, calms me. The simple sensation of moving forward creates an illusion, and illusion is exactly what I need now. When I walk alone, I owe nothing to anyone, not even to myself, to who I think I am.

Truth is, my treks aren’t always completed in perfect isolation. Encounters are inevitable. The Hubby joins in late. A lone runner in an orange vest may streak past me on the other side of the road. Or a group of two or three may whisk by, a well-paced tribe. Also, more than once I’ve been greeted by the neighborhood fox. Tail at full salute, it stares at me for a few moments before scampering away. I always think of this as a rare treat.

I know these morning walks, and my desperate need for them, won’t last forever. Nothing does. Eventually my routine will give way to a new normal. I’ll develop new habits, carve out new patterns, and maybe combine the old with the recent. This transition may already be under way.

For now, though, taking one step at a time is all I can manage. During that slice of time before birdsong and sunup, mindless repetition is its own reprieve.

(Ana Veciana-Suarez writes about family and social issues. Email her at avecianasuarez@gmail.com or visit her website anavecianasuarez.com. Follow @AnaVeciana.)