This last week, some firsts: Using a lawnmower, digging a hole, driving without streetlights, seeing a family of ducks cross a road, watching three deer munch on our grass. That’s just an amuse-bouche to set the table for what I know will lead to many courses of firsts. Realizing I’ve never lived in a place where grass required mowing was a realization. I grew into pre-teen-hood on a California culdesac in a house with a lot of tall trees, ivy, and a brick patio out front and moved with my mom into what would become a series of apartment buildings that would contain me all the way into adulthood where I moved from west coast to east coast, and back to the west coast. For five decades there I was cheek-to-cheek, wall-to-adjoining wall with other humans making up stories about who they were based on what I heard. Sometimes I heard more than I wanted to. Now I’m back to the east coast and the neighbors are the aforementioned deer, ducks, frogs, and birds. For sure there are other houses but they’re some amount of miles away.

I haven’t necessarily craved living in a stand-alone situation but now that I’m here, I like it. I also understand that there are responsibilities to keeping the place in good shape. Enter the gas-powered lawnmower that, once I learned the necessary push-down-on-the-lever pressure, I rolled up and down the sloped hills in front like a person getting their learner’s permit, which is to say slow and unsure to start, then picking up speed and dangling an arm holding a cigarette out the window. Well, no, not that last bit, but more that was my attitude toward the end of the roll. My challenge: keep to a solid pattern of up-down stripes rather than go willy-nilly tic-tac-toe style. I mean, I knew the tic-tac pattern was not correct but at some point maybe I got bored and spotted a dandelion that wanted running over that was out of my lane. This kind of distractication is always tempting for me. Sit down to write, stare out the window, realize I need to order bug spray. Order bug spray, begin to investigate biodegradable cat litter, think about composting, wander away from desk to stare out into the backyard that needs a going-over with the lawnmower. That describes the last hour and I’m sure is not unusual at all to many folx reading this right now (perhaps even themselves having been shiny-object distracted from this post). I think it’s why, when I understand how the dad moments are going currently, I get that when I remove myself from the house and the to-do list, and I walk around these new roads there is a silence that introduces an emotional weight I notice sloshing and settling around my heart area. It’s a serpentine thing (like my mowing technique) these emotions, yet I can still get there if I just pay some attention to where I am.

My go-to has always been to listen to podcasts, music, or books during walks and while my headphones have been with me, they’ve stayed off my ears while my device has only been used for this cool-ass bird-identifier app my friend W introduced me to. I now know there is such a winged thing as an ovenbird and a red-eyed Vireo (as opposed to the Warbling or Philadelphia or Black-whiskered Vireo). Those two bird breeds call&response like they’re the only ones with something to say. Who knows, maybe that’s true. Learning how to walk and listen to the leaves and birds also introduces an inner soundtrack that’s been more muted than turned up to eleven. I sense a subtle rattling, the shake of some inner dice that roll out snake eyes: one die poignant, one die buoyant. Some luck, that.

It’s all chance, isn’t it? Finding my way around the firsts and remembering, then maybe forgetting and figuring it out all over again. Some I like less (hole digging not my favorite, nor driving non-streetlight country roads at night), some more (mowing and seeing families of critters, discovering the walkable roads). I now know which ones not to take because there are dogs who are not happy to see me. I also know which ones are extremely worthy of hiking up for the views. I constantly feel my dad along for these walks and many other random moments. The grocery store visitation as I wheeled around the local Tops, felt a bang against my leg rounding an aisle, and looked down to realize there was a forgotten man’s cane hanging off the cart. A kind of tip-of-the-hat memory of when my dad would forget his in just that way at the local Stater Bros.

Everywhere I’m wandering, I’m seeing the new views and possibilities. Green, worthy of respect, and even overgrown. That last bit is literal since out the window I see it’s time for me to go perfect my lawnmowing expertise: firm grip, specific pattern.