Snorkel Walking

Since I returned to the rainy Northwest from my sunny adventure in December I’ve taken to walking in the dark. I walk both in the morning and in the evening. I call it ‘snorkel walking’ because, in the dark, I discover things I don’t see while walking in the light.

Last night after dinner I walked up a busy street towards the bookstore near my house. On the way back I passed a neighborhood staircase that I frequently use as a shortcut to get to the main street. In the dark, surrounded by trees and bushes it looked like an ocean cave, so dark I’d have to spend some time there, adjusting my eyes to see anything.

This morning even though it was raining, I felt called to walk in the dark. I walked the lake, without a headlamp today, trusting my eyes would be enough. My glasses fogged up and I had to keep clearing them so I could see, just like a snorkel mask that fills with water now and again.

There was a float of coots treading water close to shore and a few beyond doing a dance that looked like running bases for water fowl. I was reminded of a school of fish under the sea, most of them gliding together with their magical proprioceptive sensibilities, but always one or two making their own path away from the others.

A few days ago on my walk I was surprised to come upon the silhouette of a great blue heron on a fallen tree just a few feet from shore. She stood perfectly still enjoying the quiet and I stood still watching her until she sensed me and flew away, her great prehistoric wings taking her to a less disturbed home.

In the dark there is a quiet that doesn’t exist in the light. Usually I only see one or two people on my snorkel walks. Unlike my walks in the daytime where I make eye contact with nearly everyone and say hello or what a beautiful day, in the dark everyone seems more internal, moving through their own private meditation.

I grew up in a big city, in a neighborhood with lots of crime. I learned to be afraid of the outside dark. I was taught to fear every corner, the hollows behind every bunch of bushes, viaducts, empty doorways, even parked cars. 

I still fear the dark a little bit. I always take the more travelled path and I trust my instincts if something doesn’t feel right. I wouldn’t venture into something that felt like an ocean cave. But more that the smidgeon of fear I still carry in my skin, I feel awake and alive on my snorkel walks.

In the dark my senses are reversed. I can hear things before I see them. Everything is in slow motion. It takes time to truly know what I’m seeing or hearing. It’s a slow unfolding, giving me time to digest every part of the experience instead of just the final image.

There are no photo ops with snorkel walking, no ways to capture the beauty. The sensory experiences are absorbed with each step, filling me as I go. Sometimes I walk so that I can see the sun come up on my return towards home. On those days I love walking into the light, taking my final steps towards the start of my busy day with the sun. 

But many days it is still dark when I return home in the mornings. That used to make me sad. I told myself that I longed for the light, believing it was a necessary part of happiness, like a sunshine emoji at the end of a text. But I have a new understanding now. In the darkness there is quiet, stillness, and great beauty. Like the mystery of the ocean, there is a comforting darkness and room for deep discovery in snorkel walking.