Enough Time Beside the Lake

My perfect day does not start with a job message. I’m still looking for work and that is part of my life. For this day, I want the search to wait until I have had breakfast and a walk. I can give a morning to myself without pretending the rest has been settled.

I make strong coffee and look out at the feeder. The chickadees give me something to watch before I start watching the time. I live alone in Lakeside, a Duluth neighborhood. No dog to take out for walks and no schedule to adhere to for other people. Some mornings the silence is huge. Today I want it to be comfortable.

The weather I am imagining is mild, with clear air and a little coolness by the lake. I like winter walking too, but the day I want right now does not need cleats or a face covering. I want shoes I know, a comfortable layer and enough room to choose how long I stay out.

I fill a small thermos and take water. There will be something simple to eat later. I do not want to buy new clothes or equipment to make this morning qualify as special. What I already have at home can be useful enough for this day.

Before leaving the house, I check the conditions for the day. For this day, I will take the lakeshore path. This is the path that I take most days, so it is familiar to me. I like to know the general outline of the outing before I head out the door and have choices along the way as to whether or not to turn back.

This walk is alone. My retired neighbor Marlys walks with me on Tuesdays. Today I want to be able to choose my pauses and not have to explain why I stopped. I am a shy person and silence with another person can be stressful for me. I can stop worrying and hear the world around me on my own.

The first few steps are ordinary. That is part of what I want from them. In 2022, I began with walks of ten minutes around my block after a heart attack and cardiac rehab. I have walked a great deal since then. I still like beginning without a declaration about how far I am going to get.

As I settle into my pace, the house and its tasks fall a little farther behind. I notice the feel of the shoes and the air against my face. I want to stay comfortable, not demonstrate effort to anyone. There is nobody keeping score, and I try not to appoint myself to the job.

By the water, I slow down. The lake looks gray and blue in this imagined morning, and the light moves across it without doing anything dramatic. I stand where I can watch for a bit. I have no photograph to match and no particular sight to collect before I can say I enjoyed being here.

I grew up in Virginia on the Iron Range and moved to Duluth for school when I was 18. The lake has been a constant in my life as an adult. It is familiar to me and can be appreciated on any given day.

I walk slowly enough to notice the difference between wanting to rest and wanting to look. Both are good reasons to pause. I used to worry about what a stop said about my fitness. Now I would like to become better at letting it say exactly what happened. I stopped. Then, when I was ready, I walked again.

My usual walk lasts 45 minutes to an hour, and I go longer on good days. I do not need to decide which kind of day this is at the start. I can let it unfold without turning the first comfortable stretch into a promise about the rest. That flexibility is part of feeling at home in the habit.

I find a place to sit with the thermos. The coffee is still hot. I take a careful drink and let the warmth reach my hands. It is a small comfort that required a little preparation at home. I like being able to provide that for myself without waiting for a special occasion to make it reasonable.

I can sit there and watch the water, allowing my mind to wander. Work comes into it. I was an office manager for 27 years before the layoff in October 2025. I miss being expected somewhere. It is possible to miss that and still enjoy this free morning. I do not need to choose only one feeling about it.

I think of the people whose birthdays I used to keep on a calendar. Looking after small details was part of what I did well. It still is. Filling the thermos, remembering the water and choosing a route I can enjoy are modest ways of using the same part of myself. The ability did not disappear with the job.

Then I can put the lid back on and continue on my way. I do not want the whole walk to become a meeting about unemployment. The air smells clean, and I can hear the small sounds near the path. For a stretch, I leave my thoughts alone and simply pay attention to what is outside my head.

The other thing to note is that I have never run and do not plan to start. Walking gives me enough to work with. That is not a statement about what anyone else should do. I take my medications, see my cardiologist and make choices within my own care. Anyone needing advice about their own health should talk to their doctor.

On this day, there is no need to go farther to justify carrying lunch. I stop when I am ready to eat. The food is plain and familiar. I eat slowly, drink some water and leave the place as I found it. The pause gives the outing a shape beyond leaving home and getting back again.

I think about my mother, Carol. She lives in assisted living in Duluth, and I visit on Sundays and Wednesdays. This imagined day does not need to contain a visit to prove I care about her. I can enjoy my own time and look forward to the time we have planned together. I am still learning to allow that.

The return begins before I am worn out. I like the feeling of choosing to head home with enough strength for the distance. It makes the last part of the walk pleasant rather than something to endure. I want to notice the light on the way back, not spend the whole time wishing the house were closer.

I am passing familiar stretches of the walk and finding different things of interest to look at. A patch of shade has moved. The breeze feels different against my cheek. These are not important things but they make the return to the house more interesting than simply retracing my steps.

Near home, I begin thinking about what sounds good for lunch or supper. Wild rice hotdish is a comforting thought. I like a day that includes food without an argument about whether I earned it. I went for a walk. I am hungry. Those facts can sit together without turning the meal into a reward for my performance.

Inside, I put the thermos by the sink and take off my shoes. I put it on the counter near the sink. I take off my shoes and go into the rest of the house. It is still quiet. I feel ready to be in the house now. I have been outside and done something for myself. The morning has given me a memory that does not involve checking whether an application received a reply.

I write in my paper walking notebook. I keep the entry short and truthful. I went to the lake, had coffee and stopped to eat. I do not need to call it my best walk or promise to do more tomorrow. Having a record helps me see the ordinary days as part of a life worth paying attention to.

The afternoon can hold a puzzle, the radio, and some cooking. The job search can wait until later. I am not retired. I have worries about the job search but I do not have to let them dominate every hour of my day.

I would like to write for people who need that kind of permission. Beginners do not need me to be impressive. They need an honest account of what starting can feel like, including the plain days after the first excitement fades. I can offer that without pretending my experience is a rule for their bodies or their lives.

By evening, I am glad I went alone and glad I will walk with Marlys again. Both things can be true. The shoes are ready, the notebook is closed and there is enough supper. I have no great announcement to make about the day. I spent part of it beside the lake, and I was happy to be there.