Walking, poetry and the after life

I have always loved the poet Emily Dickinson.

I even went on a pilgrimage over 20 years ago to Amherst, Massachusetts to visit her grave and childhood home (then a rooming house for Amherst College faculty). I visited the Amherst Public Library and stared through the thick protective glass to view several of Emily's poems in her own handwriting.

I ventured to Harvard University and walked up the steps of the Widener Library and asked one of the librarians if I could see the Emily Dickinson room, expecting to be rebuffed. Instead, he delightfully took me upstairs through a maze of hallways and more stairs, and possibly into another library where finally, he opened the door to a little cubbyhole.

I went inside to share the cramped space with the desk in which Emily Dickinson's sister Lavinia found her poems after Emily's death, as well as other furniture from her home.

I can't say I really felt her spirit there, but the joy I felt at going to Harvard University and to feel so welcomed by its staff was overwhelming.

One of my favorite poems by Emily Dickinson is No. 324, which begins,

SOME keep the Sabbath going to Church--

I keep it, staying at Home- -

With a Bobolink for a Chorister--

And an Orchard, for a Dome—

I think of it everyday when Jerry, the dogs, and I go for our walk on the beach. I'm lucky in that I "get to go to church" everyday.

Only in my case, the seagulls are the "Chorister" and Port Susan Bay is the "Dome."

I first started taking walks due to two reasons. First, I read in some women's magazine that a cure for depression, from which I have suffered at times, is sunlight, and that women who spend just 20 minutes a day walking outside, whether the sun is out or behind clouds, are less depressed than those who don't.

Second, after I started walking, my three dogs started to demand their daily walks, too.

As soon as I came home from school, they would whine and "paw" me until I changed my clothes and headed to the beach.

I've been walking daily for over 10 years now.

At first it seemed we were the only ones on the beach, but now we run into fellow beach walkers almost everyday: Loren and Gladys, Tim and Scarlett, Cameron and Kara, and Ann and Bailey all greet us with smiles and hellos, in addition to barks and woofs from those listed second in the pairs.

Some of us have a friendly rivalry at agate hunting (though I'm not sure Loren and Tim would call it "friendly"— those guys are out to win!). Few things in life are better than finding the perfect agate at Warm Beach. I am told that I should go down to Agate Beach in Oregon, but that would be too easy. At Warm Beach, they are few and far between and finding a clear agate that glows is ecstasy.

I have dreams of finding an agate as big as my fist, but to date the largest I've ever found is about the size of a small chicken's egg.

One Sunday while walking the beach, I ran into Dennis Thaut who had just found my dream agate. He showed it to me, and it must have been the look on my face (a little like a combination of Jack Nicholson in "The Shining" and Golum for you "Lord of the Rings" fans), so he quickly took his hand back, and said, "Uh, you know, you can't have it."

I did think of taking him down and wrestling him for it, but I didn't think that would be too "Sabbath-like."

So — other than the occasional "agate envy," like when people show me an agate and I say, "Good for YOU!" when I'm thinking, "Why didn't I find it?" — the walks give me simple peace and happiness.

In the spring, we're sometimes rewarded with the sound and a glimpse of a gray whale spray.

Occasionally, an otter follows us, and we also hear the splash of the seals or a kingfisher hitting the water for small fish.

Eagles screech in the trees above the sandbanks.

Talk about "Choristers"— too bad Emily Dickinson didn't live at Warm Beach!

I love to feel the wind at my face and to see the colors of the earth when we walk.

On some days everything is gray; others are brilliant blue and green.

Winter is actually my favorite time to walk. I don't have to worry about Bobo getting in a fight with a summer dog, and while it's colder, we are rewarded with less people and more tranquility.

Life would go on without my walks, but they have helped me enjoy life more and think about the universe and my place in it.

Emily Dickinson's poem ends with:

God preaches, a noted Clergyman--

And the sermon is never long,

So instead of getting to Heaven, at last--

I'm going, all along. I like that ending.