By Paula O’Kray

Sometimes when things become the busiest is when you can really appreciate the specialness of a quiet moment. The last few weeks have been crazy hectic for me, but each evening, regardless of how late it is when I get home, I make the time to take my dog for a walk. It’s as important to me as it is to her.

Usually she has to wait a few minutes while I relax for a bit and make myself something to eat, but she’s very patient. She’ll sit on the porch out front or threaten squirrels in the backyard as long as it takes until I’m ready to go. And many times, I feel like I’m just too tired, and I force myself to put on my boots and a warm jacket and get out there, but I am never sorry that I did.

If it’s early enough and we have time and daylight to hit the dog park, we do. We both enjoy the crisp autumn air and the crunch of sticks and leaves under our feet, and the freedom to move about at our own paces.

The wind in the trees, the smell of the river, the cry of birds overhead headed south for the winter and watching my dog happily bounce in and out of the tall weeds can make for a very relaxing evening. There’s an electricity in the air outdoors, a connectivity that’s not there when you’re inside, and it’s a feeling I continue to seek out time after time.

Opening the windows on a brisk fall day gets you closer to it, if you can’t actually get out there to enjoy it. But even a short walk to the car, the post office or to grab lunch can still be pretty amazing. That autumn wind hits your face, and you just feel more alive as you’re passing through it. It’s totally energizing. There’s nothing quite like the crisp ambiance of an autumn day.

I find myself taking note of the smallest things when I’m out walking. During my evening dog walks, I find many things of interest as we go. My dog is a master dawdler, and she always seems to know when we’ve reached the apex of our walk, and are heading back. She sneaks in as many detours and dallies as she can before I get annoyed with her.

But typically it takes a long time for me to get annoyed. I’m too busy noticing. Everything. For me, it’s all beautiful. It’s all art. The way the sidewalk cracks, the way the leaves dance across it when the breeze blows, the way the soft rain makes the leaves’ colors more intense and makes them smell amazing as my boots shuffle through them.

Last night it was softly sprinkling as we walked, and I was enjoying the way the rain made the sidewalks glisten, and the beautiful way the yellow maple leaves stood out against the deep blackness of the wet asphalt. I was even enjoying the wind misting my face with soft raindrops. I felt totally alive, comforted and relaxed. I felt at home and connected, the way I always have since I was very young, when I would spend entire days outdoors and in the woods.

Sometimes after a walk like that, when I get home I’ll take out the paints and try to capture an impression of what I saw that inspired me, but it’s never even close. The images do manage to remind me of those fleeting moments when I look at them months later, and the things I was thinking and feeling at that moment.

They say if you try to paint something instead of taking a photo that you remember it better, and I’ve found that to be true. The trick is to find the time to sit down once you get home and try to capture it on paper. You have to ignore all the other things calling out for your attention and focus on the thought, the inspiration or it will evaporate in the light of reality. The to-do list, the laundry, the vacuuming, the phone, the things that don’t really need your attention right now.

Sometimes when I know I won’t have that time, or if I know there will be some strong distractions when I return, I’ll bring a part of the experience back with me as a reminder. A perfectly imperfect leaf, or a maple ‘helicopter’ seed (technically called a double samara for you geeks out there), a gnarly twig or a four-leaf clover. It will sit on my desk or my kitchen counter as long as needed, each day reminding me that the outside is calling and needing my attention.

These things are the real important things. The leaves, the twigs, the stones … they smile at me when I glance their way, and without making a sound, they beckon to me, and I respond.

If you’ve ever held a big, flat gray stone that was pulled from the shores of Lake Superior in your hands for any amount of time, you know this enchantment. And the responses can vary from a change in venue that sends you out on a spontaneous adventure, to very subtle, like a simple redirection or hesitation in thought. Both are just as beneficial.

I’m inside now, writing this for you, but I can hear the wind pushing the rain against the windows, and it makes me happy. The soft gentle sound of it makes me want to sit by the window and watch the drops as they roll down the pane until I lose track of time. And although it may be a cold night, I might cheat and leave the window open just enough to fall asleep to the sound and smell of the rain on the concrete below, singing me to sleep like a lullaby.