Tiny Tale 1: The Stop Sign
Take a walk on the infinity loop
If you’re reading this in your email, you may need to click “expand” to read all the way to the end. Sometimes email platforms cut newsletters off if they’re too long. A Tiny Tale: not so tiny.
There is a scenic loop, a combination of trails, dirt roads, and paved streets, that I walk most days. Sometimes I walk the loop twice in one day. Sometimes I run it once and walk it once. Through snow, rain, ice, clouds, and sun, I walk the loop. I love the loop.
In the summer and early fall, there is a section of the loop filled with people. They are having picnics, swimming, meeting friends, basking on the hot rocks—an array of outdoor merriment. Often, I am one of those people, too. But in the winter and early spring, there are days when I see no one on the loop.
From roughly November 15 to April 15, the bustling summertime section is closed to cars. This is when the activity fades for many, but not for me, not for my walks.
Last December, the day before Christmas, I headed out to walk the loop. Snow had covered the area, creating a fresh, bright, blissful experience. I took a photo of the stop sign that now blocked the hilly, seaside section of the loop—the same stretch that fills in summer. I loved how it sat there, the stop sign, right in the snow, prominent on its mound of gravel. I thought, I should take a picture of this stop sign every time I walk the loop and see how the season changes. Perhaps see how I might change, too.
Thus, the stop sign series began.
During the series, the walks on the loop, a smattering of things happened. I will not recount them all but: I slipped on the ice (two times in a row, like a cartoon character) and bruised my wrist; a wooden swing was installed in a tree near the stop sign (I used it once) and weeks later was either vandalized or gravity got to one of the ropes; a person lost their keys and I hoped I would be the one who spotted them in the leaves, but I did not; I listened to dozens of podcasts; I laughed; I cried; I walked.
On Monday, I saw a team removing my stop sign’s twin—the sign that blocks the other side of the entrance, the side I enter this loop far less often (I guess I almost always go for my walk counterclockwise). I knew that meant my stop sign would be gone soon.
And yesterday, with a feeling of expectation as I rounded the corner, the stop sign was gone. A marker of time had been removed. Its job was done. The cars will begin to drive the loop. The people will begin to populate it. Already, I noticed so many new faces. Yesterday, I walked the loop with two of my friends—the sun shining on us, the water sparkling, the sweat building under my shirt and in my shoes.
I will miss the stop sign, but I’m looking forward to the change. I think even without it, I will still see how I am changing, too.
