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I run to breathe, because that’s become difficult these days in the States. I run to restore my faith that rational humans outnumber the others. Lake Padden is my destination of choice because it’s peaceful and lovely even in the rain, and I feel relatively safe there. Women young and old are always circling with a friend, dog, stroller, or partner, or running solo like me. I say hello to the regulars, three older women in particular. One is bent sideways and uses walking sticks for balance. Ruddy-faced, wearing a T-shirt no matter the weather, she looks to have once been strong and straight. I can imagine her chopping wood or swinging a hammer. The second, a short woman with sharp eyes, keeps her black dog leashed by her side. I alert her when I’m passing so as not to startle her pup, and she thanks me, face upturned with a curious smile. The third is a runner like me, though she is tall and elegant and I’m like a muscular elf. Both of us lean and gray-haired, we exchange nods and smiles. I find myself wondering about these women, especially the first two; lone, aging women circling the lake, deep in thought except for the occasional hello to a familiar yet anonymous face. May we each have someone who knows our stories, who will tell our exploits when we’re gone, carry us through a few more decades, as we do for our parents or grandparents. Not all of us have children.

Men use the lake, too, of course, and families on the weekend, friends catching up on each other’s lives, lovers young and not-so, college kids—all manner of humans handling all manner of equipment: kayaks, paddleboards, fishing poles, picnic gear, giant inflatable swans, bikes, spike-ball sets. Year-round, too, except for the swans. Sometimes cricket players, guys who look Pakistani or Indian, use the pitch at the east end. The men’s cross-country team from Western Washington University races around once in a while, slender youths with their whole lives ahead of them. In the summer, giant extended families set up tents and barbecues and camp out all day. A gathering of about eight older guys, retired by all appearances (how else can they take a leisurely walk at ten-thirty in the morning?), regularly circle the lake. I assume they’re being proactive: intentionally socializing, avoiding the fossilization that can occur when we get set in our ways, avoiding the clutches of the online universe. Among the other men who come to the lake around the time I do are a burly, balding middle-aged man who jogs with his bulldog and a guy who arrives in his Tesla and runs bare-chested even when it snows. My husband says maybe he just likes the feel of fresh air on his skin, but there’s something about a bare-chested man running in the woods that I find unsettling. Guess that makes me either paranoid or prudish, or both.

Most of the time, I feel safe running at Lake Padden. There have only been a few times when I’ve sped up out of alarm, and it’s always been along the most heavily wooded stretch. Once a man was walking with a face mask that covered every feature but his eyes. I found that disconcerting, especially as there’s no need for a mask when you’re in the woods, far away from other people. Another time, a guy seemed to be dogging me for half a mile. I went into overdrive, running as if I were twelve and racing Mark Baute at Wedgwood Elementary in 1972. When he finally overtook me, he said, “I had trouble catching you, good pace.” Thanks? I guess he felt he needed to “catch me.” If he’d known I was in my sixties, it might have been sobering for him.  

I’m all for erring on the side of paranoia when it comes to running or hiking alone. I mentally shake my head at women who run or walk with earphones. You need to be able to hear, to sense what’s happening around you, especially from behind. You need to be realistic, and even then…

A young woman was punched in the face last year as she was running at Padden. It was on a Saturday, during a triathlon event no less, hundreds of people around. She was on the wooded stretch, and as she passed a man who was walking, he started running after her, grabbed her arm, began punching her. A complete stranger. Perhaps she reminded him of an ex-partner, or perhaps his rage was directed at all women. A couple of people saw the attack from a distance and ran to her rescue, but not before the man disappeared into the woods. A composite drawing of him showed an anodyne face. His most distinctive feature was a receding hairline. He had no freckles, moles, scars, quirky eyebrows, tattoos, acne, or  remarkable nose. His eyes were dead, so there was that: be on the lookout for a guy with eyes like a trout. Of course, I doubt his eighteen-year-old victim was taking notes as he repeatedly punched her. The fact was he could be almost any slender white dude between twenty-five and forty. At the time, there had been a series of punch-a-random-woman-in-the-face incidents in New York City and other places. Women made TikTok videos of themselves with black eyes and split lips, illustrating their assault. It seemed to me at the time that these attempts at public service announcements were a bad idea, because obviously they risked inspiring more of the same.

Running is my way of making sure I’m feeling the real. Thinking my own thoughts. Immersing myself in the elements. Clearing the news out of my head. Part of circling the lake is about disentangling myself from the madness, and part of it is my own personal fuck-you to those who would like to keep women or LGBTQ+ people or those who speak a language other than English or have a skin tone other than white wary of wild spaces—public spaces. For weeks after the attack on the young woman, I was nervous about running at Padden, and my husband was too. Several times he went with me, setting off on a walk in the opposite direction so I would pass him as I circled around. I think we figured that if I was attacked, my shriek would echo across the water and he would come running. This defied logic, a sixty-six-year-old man sprinting a mile to my rescue; but it was the thought that counted. Still, it’s infuriating to feel like you have to have a bodyguard to move freely. After the shock of the incident wore off, I went back to simply noting exit points as I run, in case I ever need to flee. Mostly, I fold into the forest, feel myself settling into the natural order of things, just another curious creature on a weirdly beautiful, sometimes abruptly brutal planet.

The lake is where I go to take joy in sun and light and people immersing themselves in nature. It’s where I go to see fog enfolding the lake, or wind tossing treetops nearly to the breaking point, hardy regulars hunched into rain jackets and keeping on. It’s where I go to feel present and full of life, and where I go to process the accretion of losses.

What is it about circular paths? Perhaps, as sand forms ripples and ridges in the wind, we’re drawn to move in funnel-like drifts that carry us back through memories one day, forward towards dreams or through realities on the next, wheeling us along through seasons and years and friendships, past grudges and worries and fears. Beyond divisions, and past the point where they can hurt us anymore. I chase myself around the lake.

Leaving Home at 83

by Sandra Butler

    Leaving Home at 83 is an intensely personal story yet one shared with thousands of aging women who are wondering whether to move closer to their children and leave their friendships behind or stay in their communities. Readers will see their own questions on these pages and recognize their own fears, insecurities, and uncertainties. Butler examines the often-unspoken struggle to sustain our autonomy as we age and our conflicted longing for dependency as we become more vulnerable. Both longings are embedded in the desire not to be a burden to those we love. With its sharp humor and refreshing honesty, this wry account brings a welcome and necessary perspective to the inevitable moment when we end one chapter of our lives and begin whatever comes next. “...The ensemble of characters is hilarious, jaw-clenching, at times worthy of a Jack Russell Terrier head tilt. Butler’s writing is tender, funny and unequivocally relatable.” —Karen Lee Erlichman, D.Min, LCSW, psychotherapist, spiritual director, writer and mentor. Available from Amazon and at www.sandrabutler.net.

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