WALKING WITH THOREAU
by Teri Heard-Ralbovsky
When my life is feeling clogged and cluttered, I like to take a walk at Walden Pond, look at the replica of Thoreau's cabin, then walk out to the actual footprint and remind myself of how little I really need.
When my husband, Peter, and I lived in Arlington, Massachusetts and our son, PJ, was still an infant, I liked to take him to Walden Pond on summer mornings after we dropped Peter off at work in Cambridge. I'd park in the lot around 8:30 or 9:00 am. As I walked down the hill to the pond, I'd often pass women with aging bodies who had just emerged from their morning swim. I admired these hardy Yankees who swam the pond in the cool morning air...by themselves. Their demonstrated strength, perceived constancy, and what appeared to be an acceptance and comfort with their bodies, which had been visibly marked with age, inspired me as I walked down the hill with my son and his bag of supports for the morning.
I didn't take PJ to the regular beach, but preferred to walk further down along the right edge of the pond to a smaller, shaded area with shallow water. I brought a little pail and shovel, and a towel to sit on. I wasn't the only mother of a young child there at that time of day, wading with her infant child in her arms, dipping him in and out of the cool water, laying him on his back and letting him float while I supported his little head and bottom. Then, sitting at the water's edge, watching him scoop up sand in his little hands and drop it in the bucket, mesmerized and delighted by the wet grit on his little fingers.
My son is twenty years old now and away at college. I am in my late 50s and being treated for Metastatic Uterine Leiomyosarcoma cancer. Today, as I drive into the familiar parking lot across from Walden Pond, the memories of those mornings re-emerge as a joyful ache in my heart. I don't miss the constant focus and attention that a four to six month old requires, but I do miss the PJ of that age who was just discovering the world and those quiet moments with him as I watched him explore.
Today, I take the pond loop so I can stop by the little beach where PJ and I hung out on those mornings. Grace is with me. There is a vacant, solitary, granite bench available just steps from the water's edge, not far from a couple of other families camped out for the day.
I sit down on the bench and take off my shoes so that I can feel the dirt and sand beneath my feet and decide to wade out into the water. Hundreds of minnows are swimming in the shallow water that is flecked with sparkles from the sun. The water is cool on my feet and ankles.
Two boys are swimming not far from me and their mother joins them in the water and then the whole family swims out a bit further. I’m not paying attention to what they’re doing; however, I hear one of the boys say, "Mom, can you hold this for me?" The mother puts up a fuss as here they were out in the middle of the water and where did he want her to put the thing he wants her to carry? To which the boy replies, "Well I asked because carrying things is kind of a Mom thing to do." I laugh a little to myself.
Yes, carrying things is a Mom thing to do. First, we carry our children in our bodies, then we carry so much of their physical stuff around in our many bags and purses. We also carry their hopes and wishes, their worries, their challenges, their losses and their hurts. Carrying things is a Mom thing to do. What a true statement, I muse, as I wade around with the little fishes at my feet.
As the parent of a young child, my days were clogged with the tasks of caring – keeping schedules, shopping, cooking meals, volunteering, cleaning, working part-time, supporting homework, driving to activities, doctor's appointments, hosting play dates and driving to play dates. So much time that was not my own.
Today, I feel the lightness of being the parent of a young adult. As I look over at the little bench where I've left my shoes and socks, my walking stick, my purse, and my phone, there is nothing on that bench that doesn't belong only to me.
As I stand here in the water, I am still carrying thoughts, worries and hopes for my family. Those will always be the baggage of my heart. I carry them joyfully -- they don't take up too much space. They are not too heavy to bear.
After I get out of the cool water, allow my feet to dry, and take in the peace of my surroundings from the bench, I put on my shoes and continue around the pond loop. I walk slowly, not in a rush. Noticing the pace of this time in my life, I find myself not feeling pressured to get my heart rate up during a walk. My pace is about noticing the things along the path. I take them into my heart to carry with me.
As I walk, I notice the things that I joyfully carry with me, like memories of a good day. I also notice things that I could set down to make the journey more enjoyable. Old regrets. Old hurts. Old beliefs.
There is a sign outside the footprint of Henry David Thoreau’s little hut that is an excerpt from his book, Walden:
I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to confront only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.
I go to the woods to remember what is essential – to notice what I still need to keep and what I can discard.
At the end of my walk, I sit in one of the rocking chairs outside the visitor center and let the breeze and the rocking cool me down.
I rest into my late middle aged, post-menopausal body that is touched by cancer, marked by stretch marks, surgery scars, and other scars that come with living an active life, and let the memories of the morning wrap around me like the warm towel I used to wrap around PJ.
The gift of this time of life is feeling comfortable in my wrinkly, scarred, paper thin skin. I can put down the worries and the burdens of my younger self and walk slowly and intentionally through this phase of my life.
TERI HEARD-RALBOVSKY has been walking with Metastatic Uterine Leiomyosarcoma cancer since May, 2021. She writes about living and walking with cancer at late mid-life through the lens of a wife of 26 years, a mother to a college aged son, and other identities in her family and through her work and community. She enjoys walking with her family and her dogs in the woods and on the beach. She also enjoys cooking, reading and time with friends.
