Walking the dog

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She pulls toward the same hedge every morning. There is something about that hedge — a smell, a memory, a small mammal she once met under it — that has organized her relationship to the entire walk. I do not know what it is. I have started to look forward to it.

Walking the dog is the closest thing in my day to a designed interruption. Phones do not come out. The mind does whatever it is going to do. About a third of the actual ideas I have had this year arrived on a walk with her. I am not trying to make a science of it; I am just noting it.