Kimberlee K.

We are in the thick of the triple digits in Southern California, which makes getting outside more difficult, especially if you don’t want to be entirely miserable. By 8:00am it is 80 degrees, and it doesn’t get below that until about 11:00pm. For most of the day it hangs around 100.

But that’s July for you. (And August and often September.)

Even so, I have seen people out and about. In the mornings and evenings, yes, but really at all times. As I drive with my air conditioning blasting, people are walking down the sidewalk. As I stick my tongue out at the heat that punches you right in the face, squinting my eyes as I make my way to the dumpster to take out my trash, I see people running.

People are out, people are moving. People are fanning their faces and huffing and puffing. People are red, peeked, hands on their hips. But people are moving.

As I wander around my apartment in the morning, I glance at the clock as if it is a thermometer, knowing that the later it ticks, the hotter it gets. I know I have to make exercise decisions fast.

I have conversations with myself, I weigh pros and cons, I either tie on a pair of shoes or I don’t.

And isn’t this what we all do?

Summer or not, morning or night, hot or cold, we all have these conversations—with ourselves or with others.

We wonder out loud, “I don’t know, should I?”

We say, “you’ve got this,” to ourselves in the mirror, determined to make today the first of many.

We say, “do you wanna go for a walk?” to the dog who’s watched us put on our shoes and has started wagging its tail.

We say, “I’ll be back” to our roommates or partners or kids to let them know we’re headed out for a bit.

We say, “I think I need to go for a walk” in the thick of a stressful moment or heavy day.

We say, “I’ll call you in a minute” as we lock the doors and put in our AirPods, ready to vent to our best friend about our week as we power walk around the neighborhood.

We say, “why don’t we walk there?” while discussing dessert, or breakfast, or dinner, knowing it’s close enough and that parking will be a hassle.

We say, “see you later” or “don’t lock me out” knowing that the house will be empty when we get back.

We say, “it’s so beautiful out” or “look at the sunset” or “that breeze is nice.”

There are so many small conversations that send us out into the world.

Some heavy, some light.

Some send us out peacefully, in the cool morning air or the welcoming golden evening, and some send us out in the dead of the afternoon, even as the temperature clocks triple digits and our cheeks pinken the instant we walk out the door.

Some part of our day, some conversation or burst of inspiration, or perhaps some desperate need for space, sends us outside.

And when I see someone out and moving, I always wonder what it was.

I listen for the echo of that small conversation, those last few words before they went out the door. And I hope that once they get back home, once they take that deep breath back at their front door, once they step inside, take their shoes off and say, “okay,” they feel peaceful. Because they’ve checked that off their list, or they have returned with a newer, better mindset, or because they still have the rest of their day to figure out; because they feel the air conditioning instantly start to cool them down, or because they smell something delicious cooking on the stove, or because they’re proud of themselves for getting out there.

Everyone you see out on a bike ride, or pushing the button on a crosswalk, or talking with animated hand gestures and a fast pace, or running with pink cheeks and a glistening forehead, or pushing a stroller beside a partner, or pausing next to a patch of grass with their dog, they all had a conversation before they got out there.  

And now there they are.

There I am.

For one reason or another.