What We Talk About When We Talk About Walking
There is no field guide to getting lost.
Dear reader,
It’s the middle of June, and the breeze is warm, but welcome. My dishes are bone-dry minutes after I wash them. The lavender bush is yellow and brittle. The escaped bunnies that took up residence on the property months ago finally have a successful litter.
I walk a one-mile loop at a lake near the trailer almost daily. The dirt path wraps around a 30-acre reservoir, one of two major drainages of the Atascadero Creek-Mid Salinas watershed. Surrounded entirely by residential homes, it feels unmistakably suburban. The trail is often crowded: septuagenarians walking Golden Retrievers after an early supper, or young hetero couples jogging side by side in spandex, the husband (I assume) pushing a stroller with one, sometimes two, small humans inside.
It takes a week for me to feel like a regular. Now other walkers recognize me, and I them. I learn who prefers a nod or a toothless smile, and who’s hoping for an optimistic “good morning!” to feel less alone. I give it freely, even when I don’t want to.
I think about getting a dog again—probably because I see so many on my walks. The big ones seem like a handful—so much fur—and I’m stunned to recall that I used to be one of those people walking a large, shaggy dog. I don’t recognize her—that woman—the version of myself who made those choices, the person who lived that life.
Mom loses her way while walking this morning. Without a loop to guide you, it’s easy to forget where you’re going. She’s gotten lost before, but today when the police find her, she can’t remember the details of her life.
My brother texts me while I’m on the loop: We need to chat asap. I return to the trailer, portion a packed lunch into a glass container, slather myself in more Korean SPF, and head to the studio.
I drive down the hill in silence, knowing he is either going to share bad news, or very bad news about my mother. I’m not ready to let go, but I pray for the worst-case scenario. The alternative—living with dementia—seems worse. Forgive me.
In assisted living, being able to get yourself home is a non-negotiable—you’re a liability otherwise. Today mom gets kicked out, and my brother apologizes to me for not knowing what to do next.
I wonder why I prefer a manmade, mindless loop over walking the Pacific shoreline, just fifteen minutes in the other direction. Maybe it reminds me of adolescent summers in Massachusetts, walking West Concord with my mother in the early mornings. She taught me how to walk. Brisk, determined, unfuckwithable. A pace I’m constantly teased for, unless I’m in New York.
Similar to public sidewalks, I can’t fall apart at the lake, and I like it this way. Walking the loop, I keep my feelings inside, smile gently, and stay on track. I love the ocean, but it shakes me from a stupor of control that I don’t always want to let go of. Standing where the land meets the sea, I can cry and scream, I can go under, I can float away. Sometimes I don’t want to give in to what the water’s edge pulls out of me. Sometimes I don’t want to get lost.
Love,
Sky
July is a hard mental health month for a lot of people. Eager for a media blackout? I am hosting another Instagram detox for the month of July. This is an all-new cohort of people that will start together from scratch. We meet on Zoom every Tuesday in July for five weeks from 5-7 PM PST. Think of it like a digital pillow-fort that aims to bring together sensitive baddies, analog girlies, big-time daydreamers, and tender queers who want to interrupt their algorithm and quiet the noise. Maybe you aren’t ready to take a break from Instagram and you just need a place to check-in with yourself and others around how it impacts your life (terrible/beautiful?). As a group, we will be supportive witnesses for each other to log on or log off! Sign ups before June 21st get an early bird discount ($50 for the whole month). ENTER THE VOID, FOR A LITTLE WHILE AT LEAST.
Slow Revolutions print here New prints and t-shirts online now, and free domestic shipping on orders over $100. Thank you for any patronage, support, reshares, reposts—all of it.
Same Sun print here - has a PODCAST. Listen to the first episode with here. Holly and Chris each write newsletters that I actually open, and getting to hear them in dialogue is like a mind-massage.
This guided meditation and dharma talk with Matthew Brensilver has stayed with me for weeks.
My studio assistant made me get a TikTok. I don’t make the rules! Just trying to get my art on people’s walls. If you’re into me, but slightly more unhinged, you can find me here.
If you have an interesting, non-ugly store or boutique and want to start a wholesale account for Lordcowboy stickers or small prints, email me at Hello@lordcowboy.com
"Forgive me." Grateful you say the hard shit. I harbor that feeling as well.
Why am I crying. Kidding. I know why. I really love you and I hope you feel held from over here. I do the same thing on my walks—what does this person want, I’ll give them that.