World Series Champs!

Washington, D.C., is waking up late today, pushing snooze at least twice and downing an extra cup of coffee. But as one of the bleary-eyed ones, I can say ... it was totally worth it. It was worth it to see the Washington Nationals beat the Houston Astros to win the World Series, an improbable, come-from-behind victory like so many of the others the Nats have achieved this season.

But this victory holds no future trial.  The team has gone from a 19-31 record in May to World Series champs in October. They have nothing left to prove.  But as the oldest team in the league and the come-from-behind specialists, they have something to teach us about determination, drive and never saying never.

What they've achieved most of all, though, is to bring us a hometown pride that's hard to come by in the Nation's Capital. We're no longer the "Swamp," the seat of dysfunctional government. We're the home of a team with loyal supporters (my neighbors have been season ticket holders since 2005) and a fan base that transcends partisan divides.

Events like this help people feel like they belong. And more than anything else, it's the belonging I celebrate today. 

Inner Light

It's cloudy and warmish,  a still day made for long walks in the gathering leaves. I won't have time for such a thing, but it's nice to dream about it on my short strolls with Copper.

Say what you will about autumn color set off by blue skies, but when it's gray outside the bright trees seem to glow from within. It's as if the stored goodness of all those days in the sun are giving something back to us now — something that says, yes, we will fall and crinkle and be trod underfoot; yes, our whitened trunks will be revealed and cold winds will blow — but beyond it is all this radiance.

That's what it seems like on cloudy days in October when birds are still singing and squirrels scamper to store food and summer annuals cling to life in pots on the deck.

We'll see how it feels in a few weeks...

In Transit

No matter how crummy the commute — and I've had some doozies — the time I spend in transit is usually always interesting.

Take today, for instance. It wasn't one of the better trips I've had from home to office, but it was perfect for people watching, for noticing. It was the usual jumble of humans and locomotion that I'm convinced become embedded in me somehow and pop out in my writing or thinking.

In the parking lot, a man in a Nationals cap and a flowered shirt searched his trunk (full of bags and boxes) before walking to the station.  On the train, I sat next to a man reading a book ... a book! And on the way out of the train, I heard one of my favorite buskers, an accomplished violinist, tripping through the fourth movement from Schubert's Trout Quintet. I gave him a dollar.

Walking from the station to the office, a fellow commuter and pacesetter dropped something tiny. It wasn't money, but he took pains to chase it down and pick it up. Was it a tiny ticket? An important phone number scribbled on a piece of napkin? No, it was a shred of wrapper from the granola bar he was nibbling (tidily, it seems) on the way to work. It was, in short, a human moment, just one of thousands that occur ... in transit.

A Change of Day

Yesterday began with a deluge, a rainstorm that settled in over the region and sent me into a reflective, closet-cleaning mood. Not that I actually cleaned any closets — though I did do some straightening up and pruning of old clothes in the basement.

But I had no sooner hunkered down for a day of inside work when, about noon, the rain stopped and the sun peeked out. I soon abandoned the basement chores for a walk and some outside tasks — such as cleaning up a pumpkin that was apparently mauled by hungry deer (that's a first!).

Days with dramatic weather changes can throw off one's rhythm and to-do list. But they can also foil the routine thinking that sends me into auto-pilot. By mid-afternoon, I decided that the best thing I could do would be to sit on the deck in the rocking chair, bask in the 70-degree temps and describe the scene in my journal.

"The low sun bends behind the big tree in the back of the yard, the one that will probably have to come down soon since half of it is already dead and the other half sports two large lifeless limbs. ... Ah, but it's lovely sitting here on the deck in the warm wind, a few clouds scudding by above, as the oaks flash yellow against the blue."

Tissues

If I ever doubt I am my mother's daughter, I need look no further than my pockets ... or my purse ... or the sleeves of a cardigan. For in all of those places, I am sure to find ... tissues.

I was just downstairs washing a pair of Mom's pants that I have decided to give away. I will snap a photo of them before doing so, a new practice I've been told works wonders in the quest to declutter. But before putting them in the washer, I checked the pockets — and there, of course, I found a Kleenex.

Mom kept them everywhere. Her pocketbooks were full of them and so were her bedclothes. It was probably the problematic sinuses that have come to plague her children as well, and the lung condition she suffered certainly didn't help.

But to me the tissues are endearing — and I hope I never come to the end of them.

Golden Glow

I walked downstairs yesterday and was enveloped in a golden glow. It was the witch hazel tree, that stalwart of the garden, earliest to bloom and gracious in its un-leafing.

Perhaps because I'm sauntering through the season with our little doggie, I'm noticing the autumn colors more this year. The oak at the end of the street is at its most fetching, an almost neon orange set off by the green still left on the tree. I have a favorite view of it, which is from the meadow where it's framed by bare branches.

Elsewhere in the neighborhood there are russets and roses and burning bushes bursting by the roadside. Northern Virginia has never been a fall wonderland — we have our springs, after all — but for a week or two we sport a kind of mellow beauty that speaks of the serenity this season can hold.

Forward from Here

I first began reading Reeve Lindbergh because of her famous mother, Anne Morrow Lindbergh, whose Gift from the Sea has always been a favorite of mine. Reeve's memoirs Under a Wing: A Memoir and No More Words: A Journal of My Mother provide the inside stories of her upbringing and her mother's final years.

Like her mom, Reeve writes with a friendly, accessible style. And because Reeve grew up with a writer (actually two of them; her famous father wrote books too), she learned early on how writing can help make sense of things.

Reeve is an unabashed journal-keeper, and though she laughs about using her journals as an escape from other writing chores, she also says that much of her material comes straight from them.

"To write as honestly as I can in my journals about my everyday life and the thoughts and feelings I have as I go along is an old, tenacious yearning," she writes. Writing is "comforting and steadying," she says. It was so even when she underwent brain surgery, which she did while writing Forward From Here, the book I just read and from which I quote.

In a later chapter, she talks about moments of well-being when she's "suddenly, acutely conscious of being alive: on a spring morning when the first V of wild geese flies over the farm; any time I see one of my children again after a separation; whenever I look out over the hills and pastures, or up at the stars.

"I'm convinced that what we really need most to sustain us as we grow older, more than any drug on the market, is this kind of appreciative awareness, along with compassion, a sense of humor, and simple common sense."

To which I can only add ... amen!

Lights, Camera?

Here in Crystal City, things are on the move. Old buildings are coming down and new ones are going up as we shed our dowdy D.C. image in favor of a hip new HQ2 vibe. Yes, it's still dear old CC, where men in dark suits dash quickly into idling SUVs. But there's a new energy here, a flash of the creative class that is to come.

I promised myself I would chronicle these changes in my own particular and unscientific way. And one of the shifts I've noticed in my own building is that stairwells now have automatic lights that go off when no one's around.

Since I exercise by walking up and down the stairs, this has come under some personal scrutiny. I begin my walk in the semi-darkness, and only as I emerge onto each landing do the lights come on. Though this makes me feel just a tad important — these lights are coming on just for me! — it also makes me feel just a tad freaked out.

I remember the phrase, "Lights, camera, action!" and wonder ... if new lights are here, can new cameras be far behind?

Look to the Rainbow

I knew what it was before I saw it. I knew it from the jaded commuters standing slack-jawed outside the Metro station, then grabbing their phones and snapping away. I knew that on this October Tuesday, our gray day of rain was being rewarded with a rainbow. And not just any rainbow — but a complete arch that spanned all of Route 66.

The rainbow was spotted in other parts of the region, too. I have a reliable rainbow-sighting report from Reagan National Airport, though no pots of gold were found.

The longer I looked at the rainbow the more the colors revealed themselves. At one point there was even a double bow.

What heartened me most were the rainbow-spotters themselves. Not much will slow commuters from reaching home in the evening, but the rainbow was doing just that. I snapped half a dozen shots of the heavens on my way to the car ... and I wasn't the only one.

Exploring the Underground

The other day, on the way back from an office at the other end of my work neighborhood, I found myself once again wandering the warren of paths, shops and eateries known as the Crystal City Underground.

There are subterranean walkways in many cities — Montreal, Toronto and Chicago, to name a few — usually built for safety or warmth. In our case, mostly safety, since Crystal City has military origins.

It was about noon when I was passing through, marching directly behind a soldier in camouflage. I followed him for several minutes, thinking from his purposeful stride that he knew where he was going. By the time he peeled off into a restaurant, there were signs I could follow to find my way. 

The bustling new section I discovered has a pharmacy, a chocolate shop and a Halloween store, of all things, something I doubt it will have much longer. There were plenty of restaurants with delicious aromas. Most of all, there were people milling about, checking phones, meeting friends. It was a lively little break in the middle of a busy day — and a heartening adventure, to discover a new place so close at hand. 

Terra Firma

Ever since I moved into my new office I've had an aerial display to observe out my window.  The first week it was directly across from me on the building across the way. Now, entering my third week, it has moved slightly to the west.

At first, I thought these intrepid souls were window-washers. But I quickly realized what they were doing was infinitely more complicated and nuanced, something that involves power-washing as well as chiseling, scraping and applying what appears to be a seal at the base of each stone panel.

Of course, what they mostly do, what absorbs my attention when I'm in between tasks and "resting my eyes," is hang off the side of an 11-story building.  Right now, for instance, they are almost at the top, swaying in the breeze on a little platform with only a few ropes to hold them up.

I know they are belted and secured and wearing helmets. They appear to be safe. But I still get a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach watching them work.

I may have hard days filled with crazy deadlines and tight turnaround times. But every writing and editing assignment, no matter how difficult, is conducted with my feet firmly planted on terra firma. Watching these guys has made me very grateful for that.

A Hole in the Bucket

We've needed a long rainy day for months, and today we finally have one.

Rain is pouring off the roof and into the gutters. It's flattening what's left of the ferns and beating the petals off the second-bloom roses.

It's also seeping into the basement. But at least we know now why the flooding occurred in August. It wasn't just the volume of water, though that was certainly a factor. It was also because the bucket placed to catch the seepage sprang a leak.  Luckily, this was discovered before a plumber was called.

I think there's a life lesson here, something akin to "check the life raft."

True Foods?

It happens reliably, when the first nip of fall is in the air. And it's been happening reliably for decades, back to when I lived in Chicago and even in New York City. When the temperature drops, out come the recipe books, the cutting boards, and the pots and pans.

Salads, my go-to meal of choice, don't appeal when the temperature plummets. This year, thanks to a recent meal at True Foods Kitchen, I'm looking for ways to recreate some of those scrumptious dishes: ancient grain bowls and roasted cauliflower with dates and pistachios.

Lately I feel like I've been suspended between the food of my youth, baked chicken and spaghetti and other plain fare, and some new cuisine in the making, some other way to eat, which is more plant- and grain-based, though not without the occasional bit of chicken or beef or fish.

I don't have a lot of time for cooking, so that makes it difficult to prepare the sort of recipes I've just been reading. But maybe I'll tackle a couple anyway. After all, the light is low and nights are dipping into the 30s.

It's time.

Eek!

Nothing unites an office like a rodent on the loose, and this week, my office has had one. I first heard about it from my former cubicle mate, who spotted a telltale tail sticking out of a crack in a partition. The mouse looked like it was trying to fit into a hole it was too big for, she said, and laughed.

But laughing wasn't all that was going on. A few minutes later, there was a scream from another part of the office. The mouse had struck again.

Soon, mouse spottings became the topic of conversation in the kitchen and the hallways. I heard from someone on the other side of the building who said a mouse had been living in his potted plant.

Either this is a very well-traveled varmint or ... it's a whole family of 'em.

I put my money on the latter.

(Above: Mrs. Tittlemouse, a most tidy, particular, sweet little mouse. Let's hope the Winrock "mouse" is cast in her image.)

Remembering Mom

I'm remembering Mom today on the fourth anniversary of her passing. So much has happened since she died, so many changes in my own life and the life of our country.  I often wonder what she would make of them.

She would be surprised by my "new" job, not so new anymore. It's strange to think she knew nothing of this chapter of my life, a chapter I didn't anticipate, with its travel to faraway places and writing about some of the world's neediest people. She would approve ... to a point. But she would also be encouraging me to write another book.

As for the life of the country, Mom (a lifelong Democrat who grew more conservative with age) saw enough of the 2016 campaign-to-come to offer this pithy observation of the Trump phenomenon: "It's the right message but the wrong messenger."

I'm thankful that both she and Dad were spared having to live through the rancor and divisiveness of these times. In that sense, their exits were perfectly timed.

But of course, I wish they were both still here. And today I especially miss my strong, beautiful, intelligent, inspirational, one-of-a-kind mother.

(Mom at the Franciscan Monastery in Washington, D.C. )

Joy in Mudville

I have to laugh at myself every time I write a sports post, which has been more recently than usual lately. But it's certainly worth a shout-out that the Nationals have won the National League Championship and are going to the World Series!

It was only two weeks ago that I was gushing about the wildcard berth D.C. had won in the National League playoffs. Now they are the National League champs!

Of course, their next assignment is a difficult one. Even I've heard of the Astro's prowess. But for this town, with its losing football team, impeachment proceedings and month-and-a-half-long rain drought, this is very good news indeed.

It looks like rain today ... and there's joy in Mudville, too.

(Nats Park photo: courtesy Wikipedia)

Flow Commute

Yesterday I left the office at the usual time, but instead of walking to the bus stop, riding to Rosslyn, metro-ing to Vienna then poking home on often-clogged local thoroughfares, I simply strolled to the garage, paid the fee and zipped home, mostly on highways.

The total elapsed time in my typical evening commute is 80 to 90 minutes. Last night it was about half of that!

You might wonder why I don't drive to the office every day. That would be because the main road I take requires that there be two people in the car or that I pay a toll that can run as high as $40 or $50 for the privilege of bumping along nine miles of poorly maintained pavement.

Yesterday I had a reprieve for the federal holiday, so I enjoyed a flow commute and almost an hour more leisure time when I arrived home.

The whole situation is absurd, I know ... which is why I like to write it down every so often, just to remind myself.

Indigenous

As various news stories are reporting, there is no Columbus Day in the District of Columbia this year. Instead, there is Indigenous People's Day.  Rather than weighing in on either side of the matter, I thought I would riff on the word indigenous itself.

It comes from the Latin "indigena," meaning native, and I like thinking of it that way. That which is original, that which is true. Which can mean the plants that grow or the people who plant and tend them. Indigenous speaks of a connection to the land.

If we think of indigenous as native, though, then are we not all indigenous peoples? Every single one of us?  We may hail from the mountains or the prairies, the cities or the small towns. We may have grown up in a house or an apartment or a far-off yurt.

But each of us belongs somewhere. And belonging can unite rather than divide us.

The Kindness Trail

I saw the chalk drawings from a distance, hearts and flowers and smiley faces. They made me think of when my girls were young and would cover the driveway with chalk art, too.

But the closer I came to the drawings, the more entranced I was by them. There were words with the illustrations. "Put the 'I' in kindness," "Say hello to your neighbor." "One kind word makes all the difference." The neighborhood paths were filled with these sayings, each batch headlined "The Kindness Trail."

The installations were signed "By Hailey and Maddie." Was this a project for school? Was there a hidden camera gauging the reaction of each passerby? There were cups of chalk along the way, too. Were we supposed to chime in with our own cheerful responses? I thought about it, but decided to show my gratitude another way.

So Hailey and Maddie ... if you're out there now, I want you to know that the Kindness Trail put a smile on my face and a spring in my step. It made my day.

Fifteen Years

Today is what I used to call my "sad little anniversary" — but I don't call it that anymore. For one thing it isn't little, since it marked a profound change in my life. And for another, it isn't sad. I mostly said this because of journalistic scruples — and I don't feel those much anymore.

Fifteen years ago today I took a staff magazine writing job for a university publication, ending 17 years of full-time freelancing. I had been happy and productive as my own boss, cranking out hundreds of articles for scores of national magazines. I even wrote a couple of books. But the creative well was running a little dry, the pocketbook was feeling a bit slim — and the job presented itself as an attractive option.

I told myself that I could always leave if I was miserable. But I wasn't miserable, and the staff writing job led to an alumni magazine editor job and eventually to my current work writing for a nonprofit development organization.

I have stepped further away from my journalistic roots than I ever thought I would. But I long ago realized that every writer answers to someone, be that a magazine editor, an advertiser or a communications director. And my writing is doing far more good now — helping survivors of human trafficking, for example — than it was when it was used to sell makeup or diapers.

Which is not to say I have no quibbles. Almost none of my work is bylined. I put words in other people's mouths. I am an employee. More and more, I long for time to do my own writing. And, every October 12th, I think about the choice I made. Was it the right one? I'll never know.

Tripping the Light Domestic

Sometimes the tasks of the day seem to weigh me down. They are just more to-dos in a sea of them. But other times, they are actions of such richness and delight that I wonder why I ever thought them otherwise.

Take today, for instance. Since I'm working at home I leisurely brewed a pot of tea, whipped up one of my strawberry milkshakes and had both at the ready as I read through email. It was a pleasure to give Copper his pill, to coax him to eat his breakfast by sprinkling a meaty treat on the dog food.

What makes the difference, I think, is time. When I rush through each chore, I am only in check-off mode. There is no presence. Whereas when I'm not in a rush, the day spreads out before me, a banquet of sights, smells and activities.

Tripping the light fantastic means dancing nimbly. Tripping the light domestic means walking lightly through the day.

Seek Discomfort

This morning I boarded the inbound Metro at the last minute, finding a full train for the second time this week. Though I often don't get a seat on the way home from the office, I usually do get one on the way there, since I start at the end of the line.

But today, no way. So I set down my bag, pulled out my newspaper and settled in for the duration. It's not a long ride, and I could use the standing time. Which is not to say I didn't fantasize about someone popping up and offering me a seat. I wasn't even sure that I would take it, but I wanted it to be offered. (Perverse, but true.)

That's when I noticed the teenager in the yellow sweatshirt. He was sitting in one of the side-facing seats and was, like most riders, totally absorbed in his phone. His sweatshirt read "Seek Discomfort." How ironic, I thought. Apparently, this did not extend to the discomfort of giving up his seat to a middle-aged woman.

But then, as if he read my mind, he looked up, caught my eye and smiled.  It was such a sweet smile. He must have been all of 15. "Would you like this seat?" he said.

"Oh, no," I replied. "I'm fine. But thank you."

He had sought discomfort. And so had I.

Back to Slow

Our little doggie has injured himself again. Like many of us who are getting older, he doesn't always recognize the limits of his strength and endurance. We found him whimpering at the bottom of the deck stairs Monday night. Once again, it seems, the darkness and the stairs have done him in, and he now has his second torn ACL.

When he walks slowly, I walk slowly. So we strolled a few houses down and back this morning, taking in the fine new smell of the morning and getting a sense of the day.

As he sniffs, I look around. There was a fox, not more than 50 feet away, staring at us. Could Copper have possibly missed him? I think he did. Maybe the fox is why I woke to the sound of a crow caw. Was it a warning from one bird to his flock?

Closer to home, we ambled beneath the weeping cherry, now sparsely leaved. It was dripping pink petals the last time Copper was injured. We are charting the seasons with our strolls. I inhale deeply, ponder the dearness of this doggie, and walk on.

(Speaking of foxes, I snapped a photo of this one a few months ago in the backyard.)

Q4

I believe this is my shortest blog title ever, though not my shortest blog post ... at least I don't think it will be!

It dawned on me the other day that I'm starting to think in quarters. Not 25-cent quarters, but business-year quarters. This is in part because I work for a nonprofit organization that talks of quarters, and I attend all-staff meetings that have recently begun happening four times a year rather than more often and more randomly.

And it was at that meeting, with its talk of the Q3 just ending and the Q4 to come, that I thought ... hmmm, this is different: thinking in quarters rather than single months.  It's perfect for the speeding up of time that seems to be more and more the subliminal topic of my days.

But it is also a convenient way to frame time, to chunk it up, so to speak. And although in one way it makes time speed up (already in the fourth quarter!), in another it makes it slow down (there are three months to measure instead of just one). It's yet another way to live our lives ... and I'm always looking for those.

Room with a View

This morning I moved all my worldly office possessions a few steps down the hall into an office. It has four walls (one of them glass), no door and two huge windows. Best of all, I can turn off the overhead light and leave it off to my heart's content.

Once they figure out how to mount my Mac monitor (this is most assuredly a PC environment) on a standing desk, I'll be able to stand up in here too (something I was reluctant to do in Cubicle Land).

I write this post (quickly, during my break) looking southeast at the building across the courtyard and the train tracks that run all the way to Florida. Beyond the trees is the highway, then the airport, then the Potomac River and Maryland.

I've been lusting after an office since I arrived here, and I'll only have this one a few months (we move to a new building next spring). But while I'm here, I plan to enjoy it. And sitting here looking out the window, laptop on lap, feet resting on trashcan ... is an excellent way to begin.

Reaching Out

Last night at a neighborhood gathering I learned about the tragic death of a young father whom I'd met on a walk about a year ago. I only spoke once with him and his wife. They'd just bought a house whose former occupants I knew, and had just found a little snake when I happened by.

I assured them the snake wasn't poisonous and that these things happen around here. (I've found snakes in our house a few times.) The couple was friendly, and for once I wasn't hurrying so we could talk. We chatted about the neighborhood, I met their darling 6-year-old twins, and I'd think of the family often when I walked past their house.

Over the summer things didn't seem right there. The house and yard looked abandoned, with tall grass and unkempt hedges. The couple was from India, so I thought maybe they'd taken an extended vacation to visit family.

But last night I learned the truth. The husband died suddenly months ago. The wife is staying here with her children, with various relatives coming over to help. Life has changed radically for this family.

Once I took in the news with its sadness, its revelation of that which we understand though seldom acknowledge — that life can change in an instant — what I was left with was the inadequacy of superficial knowledge.

We walkers in the suburbs think we're keeping an eye on things, but really we see just the barest outline of it all.  To be fully plugged in means more than just walking through; it means staying put, listening, talking — reaching out.

Suddenly Cool

It was 37 last night here. I'm tempted to research highs and lows to learn just how long ago it was since we had such a temperature. Back to April, I imagine.

In honor of the brisk air, I'm back in black running tights and sweatshirt — and am wishing for socks that came up farther than my ankles.  Seasonal change may finally be upon us.

I'm no fan of cold weather, but once it's here, I remember why we need it: to kick the fall foliage into high gear, to energize us — and, more than anything else, to provide variety.

It feels good to pull on tights — not just because they are warm, but because they are different.

Turning Right

I left the house early, out for a walk and an artist's date. The walk was one of the usuals — until I turned right instead of left at the end of Glade and ended up on an unpaved section of the Cross County Trail.

It slowed me down, this packed-dirt, root-strewn path. And slowing down was a good thing. I noticed the light filtering through the early autumn leaves, some just starting to change. I heard a bluejay squawk. Finally, I took my earbuds out so I could hear Little Difficult Run sing as it tripped over its large smooth stones.

Back to my car and inspired by the trail, I decided to drive past houses that line it. Some of them look small and down-sizable, worth a second glance.

Now I'm writing at a coffeeshop I recently discovered. The Doobie Brothers are playing, I'm tapping my feet and trying to concentrate.

Maybe not the perfect artist's date, but it's a start.

AC in OCT

I write from the comfort of an air-conditioned living room, a living room that, I believe, may never have been air-conditioned before in the month of October. But this is no ordinary fall.

It was 98 degrees here yesterday. We're not alone, either. It was 92 in New York City and 96 in Wilmington, Delaware.

That weather patterns are changing is no secret. And we have the electric bill to prove it — with more AC days this summer than last and more last year than the year before. 

I remember when heat waves were, in fact, waves, and not tsunamis. But no matter, it is cooler today, and we will soon slip into a more seasonable pattern that will once again let us pretend that everything is as it should be.

Sports Writing

After reading about the Washington National's stirring comeback to win a wild card berth in the National League play-offs, I had a thought. It probably won't last, but it's how I'm feeling today. And that is that, in my next life, I'd like to be a sports writer. Of course, that would require me to play and understand sports. But this will be my next life, so I may be stronger and more coordinated.

I'd like to be a sportswriter because it's the one place in the newspaper where you can let fly (pardon the pun) with a description or two. Lyricism is not frowned on, nor is sentimentality.  You can write long and you can even write purple and it will not necessarily be edited out.

Furthermore, there is the theory (which seems truer to me through the years), that sport mirrors life  to an uncanny degree, and that in writing about it one is actually chronicling human nature with all its warts and halos. An infinitely rich and varied topic, to be sure.

But since it is not yet my other life (I'm thankful to say), I will have to content myself with reading about sports — rather than writing about them.

(Photo: Wikipedia)

Ambulatory Romance

In Elizabeth Gilbert's new novel City of Girls, a man and woman get to know each other by exploring the streets of New York City.  They walk and talk and fall in love not by touching but by rambling.

There are unique reasons for their unusual relationship, but even putting those aside, they are onto something. Walking frees the soul, and if one soul is strolling with another, confidences are easily shared.

It may be the same process that loosens thoughts in the solitary walker, or it may be that the sheer mechanics of it means you are looking ahead and not at each other. Whatever the explanation, walking invites intimacy, as it did for this couple:

Nobody ever bothered us. ... We were often so deep in our conversations that we often didn't notice our surroundings. Miraculously, the streets kept us safe and the people let us be.  ... We were devoted to each other.