Morning Walks
When my wife Margo died in February, my mornings suddenly became empty. For years, my days began with caring for her: helping her dress, bathe, take her medications, manage oxygen machines and tests, and prepare her meals.
In her last year she was able to totter with a walker to the bathroom a few times a day, but mostly she sat in her recliner, computer on her lap, looking at the world through a screen. It was a full-time job, but one I gladly did for my closest friend of 53 years. When she was gone, the silence in the mornings was overwhelming. The pulse of her oxygen machine echoing every breath was the pulse of the house, and it too was gone.
At first, I didn’t know what to do with myself. The rhythm of caregiving had filled my days, and without it, I felt not only the loss of my wife but the absence of purpose. I knew I needed something to help me through the sadness and to carry me into each new day.
That’s when I started walking. In early February, while snow was still on the ground, I decided to go out on the rural roads next to our farm. They were practical: plowed in winter, dew-free in summer, and with little traffic. But more than that, they gave me space to think, to breathe, and to start the day in a way that lifted some of the heaviness. Over time, walking became my new morning ritual, a quiet medicine against grief.
I have three paths to choose from, each with its own character. To the north, the road winds past fields and woods. It is the quietest route, where I often find myself looking closely at trees, fencelines, and the subtle changes that come with each season. To the east, the road leads around Bass Lake. There, the water catches the sunrise, and I often pause to watch geese, herons, or swans move across the surface. On clear mornings, the lake feels like a stage where light and life perform together. The western road is more traveled, passing fields, a large marsh, and a set of weathered farm buildings. I like this route for its mix of movement and stillness—the sound of traffic balanced by the calls of marsh birds. Each path offers a different companion, and I choose depending on how I feel when I set out.
I carry my Nikon P510 with its 42x zoom lens, which lets me see distant birds and far-off landscapes as if they were near. Photography has become part of the ritual, a way of paying attention. With Margo, although I didn't walk as I do now, I took photos of everything outside and what I did and shared them with Margo so she could experience them too.
When I took care of Margo, I learned to notice the smallest details—how she was breathing, how steady she was, what she needed without words. Now I use that same attentiveness outdoors, watching for a hawk in the sky or a flower pushing through the ditch.
Grief doesn’t leave, but walking makes it lighter. Each morning, I step out the door, not to replace what I’ve lost but to keep moving forward. The roads remind me that while I walk alone now, Margo is still with me—in memory, in love, and in the simple act of noticing the world as it unfolds around me. And what I wish most is returning to show her the morning photos as we have late morning coffee together.
You can share this morning's photos with me today.
 |
| A lake sunrise is always spectacular |
 |
| Morning over Bass Lake |
 |
| Our Farm looking from west from the Bass Lake road |
 |
| wild apple tree in the ditch |
 |
| Tart, sweet, a tastebud thrill |
 |
| Blackhaw bushes loaded with dried fruit |
 |
| Dried Blackhaws taste like a raisin- slightly sweet and chewy. |
