In late summer of 2024, my friend—let’s call her LM—and I took an afternoon walk on Fort Bragg’s South Coast Trail. She asked if I was still doing my solitary sunrise walks. I told her I did them nearly every day, and had begun offering snack packs to the street people I encountered. It made me happy to see someone smile when handed an unexpected treat.

A regular named Jim called me his “Cookie Lady.” I’d often find him sitting on the Redwood Avenue bus bench smoking a joint at six-thirty in the morning, a mug of milk-laced coffee resting by his side. He looked like a grizzled, chubby toddler, and his face burst with delight whenever he accepted my offered snack. We’d spend a moment together, looking east to marvel at the sunrise and wish each other a good day.

LM was impressed by my benevolence which, in turn, fluffed my tailfeathers and made me feel almost Mother-Theresa-like. Look at me being all kind and generous and shit. And all first thing in the morning—even before I’d brushed my teeth.

As LM and I ended our walk, we spotted a woman standing at a picnic table near the headlands of the Noyo River. Her oversized drab green parka hung to her knees, covering most of an ankle-length flowered skirt. Her long brown hair was streaked with grey, held in place against the breeze by a dirty beige cowgirl hat. A cart beside her was piled high with bulging black trash bags.

LM—who owns a local storefront—recognized her. “She sometimes comes in and isn’t like the other street people I’ve encountered. She’s polite and seems well educated.”

My benevolent alarm sounded. I got all excited and said, “I have snack packs in my car. Should we give her one?”

LM is the most reserved person I know. I was shocked when she enthusiastically said, “Sure.”

I crossed the parking lot to retrieve a pack of Ritz-Bits. LM and I—fortified by our do-gooderness—walked over to the woman who by that time had spread a red and white checkered tablecloth over the picnic table.

“Hi,” I said, my smile wide and genuine.

She looked up, narrowing her eyes and pressing her lips together into a menacing line.

Uh-oh.

Maybe approaching this woman hadn’t been such a great idea. But I’d initiated contact and had to follow through to show LM that it can be a fulfilling experience to interact with the less fortunate.

Holding forth the Ritz-Bits, I said, “Would you like a little snack?”

“Why would I want that?” she said, her face a full-blown scowl. “I just went to Purity and bought two boxes of Ritz crackers.” She fished inside one of her trash bags, pulled them out, and placed them on the table.

Oops!

“But these are Ritz Bits with peanut butter,” I countered with great enthusiasm.

“What are you selling?” she growled.

“I’m not selling anything. If you don’t want them, it’s okay.”  

“I DON’T,” she yelled in a most malevolent way.

LM, cowering behind me, leaned into my ear and said, “She’s not the woman I thought she was. I think we should leave.”

As we turned, I noticed a middle-aged minstrel playing a guitar at a picnic table about twenty-five feet away.

“Come,” I instructed Laurie. I was determined to show her my giveaway plan was a noble cause.

As we walked over to him, Malevolent Woman, yelled, “WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO PULL? GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!” and other heinous things I can’t remember.

The minstrel paused in his strumming and graced us with a most beautiful smile. Surely he would accept our act of kindness.

“DON’T FALL FOR IT,” Malevolent Woman hollered. “THEY’RE DOING PRODUCT PLACEMENT!”

“Hi,” I said to the minstrel, holding out the Ritz-Bits. “Would you like a snack?”

He gently said, “No, thank you.”

As LM and I turned towards the parking lot, Malevolent Woman moved around her table, giving her closer proximity to us. “I TOLD YOU TO GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE! TAKE YOUR RITZ CRACKERS AND SHOVE THEM UP YOUR ASS!”

“Run,” I said to LM.

Fortunately, LM and I are quite fit, which allowed us to trot safely to our cars.

Malevolent Woman didn’t follow.

“Well, that was an adventure.” LM nervously giggled.

“It sure was,” I laughed, but suspect she’ll never agree to go on another one with me.

***

            So, you might wonder, how did this fiasco come about?

On the morning of the Ides of March 2024—the third anniversary of Gary’s death—I woke, as usual, at six o’clock. I stumbled to the kitchen, made a cup of coffee, and sipped it while sitting on the sofa. I shed tears as the significance of the date washed over me.

After my last sip, I took my cup to the kitchen. A glance out the window revealed the edges of an inky eastern sky beginning to lighten. With barely a thought, I pulled my winter coat over my pajamas, slipped on shoes, grabbed my iPhone, placed Air Pods in my ears, and stepped out the backdoor. I walked through the gate and took a right in the alley. A cold breeze slapped my face and made me question what the hell I was doing. I’d never gone outside at this time of day.

“Today is different,” something inside of me whispered. “Today you do.”

I opened Spotify on my phone and the song, “Sitting,” by Cat Stevens popped up.
Sitting on my own, not by myself
Everybody’s here with me
I don’t need to touch your face to know
I don’t need to use my eyes to see

I started to cry, yet continued walking. The song gurgled up all the grief I’d experienced over the loss of key family members over the previous three years—starting with my husband Gary’s death in March 2021. Then brother-like friend Jerry’s nine months later. My mother’s nine months after Jerry. And Jerry’s widow—our sister-like friend—Marcia’s death eight months after Mom. Interspersed among these were the deaths of my brother-in-law Jim and dear friend Karen.

Oh—and mixed in with all that mess was my sadness over recently making the decision to end a romantic fling. A fling I’d held high hopes for turning into a casual, yet sustainable relationship. An experience that eight months into it made me realize—for a number of reasons—that a short-term affair was all it could ever be. The breakup was very civil and amicable, but left me heartbroken. Another loss packed into a grueling three-year period.

Death. Loss. Grief. DeathLossGrief. Over and over and over again.

Goddammit!

That chilly Ides of March morning, I wept as I walked up the incline of my empty street. I watched the sky lighten to a rose and blue-gray as the sun inched towards the horizon, placing the Fort Bragg Middle School campus and the trees behind it in silhouette. I stopped and stood in awe of the simplicity, yet the miracle of this sight.

This might sound bizarre. Of all places on earth, Fort Bragg Middle School associated with a miracle? Middle schools are notorious for being places where hormones rise up to propagate armpit and genital hair, kill childhoods, and leave people traumatized for life.

But here’s the thing—if I hadn’t been outside that morning, I’d have been cloistered in my office, my focus held captive by financial news on my computer. I wouldn’t have stood across the street from a building I’d seen thousands of times, wouldn’t have known the cresting sun could bless it with such loveliness.

As I absorbed this beauty, the song “Sitting” reminded me, “Everybody’s here with me.” I deeply missed the people who were once central to my life, but at that moment, I felt them all—Gary, Marcia, Jerry, and Mom—wrapping me in comfort.

I wish I could say that a half hour of wandering allowed me to return home fully recovered from grief bullshit, but such was not the case. I did, however, feel some relief from letting go the tears that had simmered inside me throughout the days before.

The next morning at six-thirty found me outside again.

And I went out the morning after that and the morning after that and. . . .

One stormy morning, as I walked between the rain squalls on an empty street, the rising sun beamed through a gathering of dark clouds, the brilliant rays imitating a Renaissance painting of heaven bursting forth upon the earth. I stopped and searched “O Come O Come Emanuel” by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir on Spotify. As my favorite rendition of this divine song played, I stood in the middle of the street and wept with gratitude for being given this sight. I don’t believe in heaven—and certainly not in hell—but I do believe in the mystical power of the universe, and at that moment it touched my soul.

After beginning this walking quest, I’ve rarely skipped a day. Each goes a long way towards easing my periods of anxiety and melancholy. They gift me the rare opportunity to be in the moment. I wander alone through the streets—me and my music—putting one foot in front of the other—over and over and over again.

Whenever I see a newspaper on the sidewalk outside someone’s home, I pick it up and toss it onto their porch. A year into these walks, I have three houses where I routinely do this. One is a couple blocks away. I’d recently learned the husband had been diagnosed with a terminal illness. Each morning, I pick up their “Press Democrat,” open their front gate, walk to the edge of their porch, and toss it as I whisper, “I wish you peace.”

I’m not telling you this to indicate I’m a saint. I’m far from it. But from my painful experience of watching my husband Gary deteriorate over a period of years and the trauma of the six wretched weeks leading to his death, I know—I know—the emotional devastation happening in that household. If I can provide a minuscule bit of relief—not having to navigate porch steps and out to the sidewalk to retrieve a paper—that’s what I’ll continue to do.

As my spring walks turned into summer, I began stuffing a couple of snack packs into my pockets to offer to any street person I encountered. Usually, though, I anonymously leave a couple on the Redwood Avenue bus bench, about a half block from the Hospitality House.

I’ve also begun placing tiny artificial birds in people’s yards. They’re bright and colorful and I order them in bulk online. I put one in my pocket before I head out the door. Initially, I clipped one on a bush or tree in the yards of people I know. When I exhausted those properties, I began allowing a yard to tell me if it needed a bird. It might be a home that’s well-manicured, where the residents take pride in maintaining their landscape. The bird becomes a seal of approval—a well done award. It might be a place so beaten down and sad that a colorful little bird is the only thing that gives it a splash of joy.

My morning walks are an unexpected gift. They allow me to experience setting moons, half-moons, quarter moons, you-name-it moons. Full moons so majestic they take my breath away. Sunrises through magnificent cloud formations. Ravens swooping about in pairs, warming up for a day of mayhem. Serenity—deep, soothing serenity. They make me feel like I’m getting away with something, but I ‘m not sure what. Maybe I feel I’m the only person on earth privy to witnessing such miracles.

Occasionally, I encounter forty-something-year-old women power-walking. They remind me of myself at that age—desperately trying to get a grip on life by speeding through it. I’ve come to realize that such scurrying about delivered me to where I am now—a place that allows me to pause, take a deep breath, and appreciate the dawning of each new day.

Three years after bearing the dreadful grief over the deaths of my loved ones, the universe granted me ways to conjure moments of joy. These moments are fleeting, but enough to sustain me to continue walking through this challenging experience called life.