Transcript
A (0:00)
Hi there. It's major Today. We're reaching into the archives to bring you an episode from Ada Limone's time as host. I'm thrilled to revisit one of her episodes with you. And don't worry, the team is hard at work on a relaunch with a new host.
B (0:22)
I'm Ada Limon, and this is the Slowdown. I love to walk when I'm healthy and mobile enough to walk. It's one of my favorite things to do to recenter myself, or rather de center myself. Growing up in Northern California, I could walk from my house in Glen Ellen to the Sonoma Regional park, the back way through the oak trees with a short path that trespassed on private property. I'd walk for hours there with my dog, a yellow lab named Dusty. Later, when I was a teenager, I remember once my stepmother didn't love the fact that I came home from school and immediately turned on the tv. So she told me to just go for a walk to get out of the house. I was so mad at her. And so despite her, I did as she told me. I went for a hike and a horrible thing for my teenage self happened. She was absolutely right. I felt so much better among the trees and high grasses, and even as I watched carefully for rattlesnakes and mountain lions, I felt like my brain was emptying. All the gossip and politics of junior high unstuck itself from my skin, and I was reminded that I was part of something larger than school or friend groups or someone I had a crush on. From then on, I'd walk many days after school, and I did so through high school and then through college, walking down to Gasworks park almost every day, watching the boats and seagulls pass by. Even in the rain, I'd walk. New York was the same. I once walked from Battery park to Central park all all while lugging a backpack with the Norton Anthology of Poetry in it. For me, it's a solution to many things. When in doubt, I hit the road. Get out of myself. Of course, it doesn't always work, and there were whole years when I was too sick with vertigo to properly go for a walk. But when it works, it really does work. You don't have to have a plan. You don't have to go fast or go slow. You don't have to know the names of all the fauna and flora. You simply have to put your body into the world and something happens. One of the reasons I love today's poem is how it's an ode to walking a reverential description of how the brain changes when we encounter animals and ourselves during the journey. Walking across Fire island by Shelley Wong the ocean crashes and the bay rolls in. Planks creak along the boardwalk as a deer emerges underneath, umbrellas open like a sudden fruit. I I inhale salt air as fog lifts off the brush. Here I can let the deer know me. The day trippers have sailed and the sun is falling. My friend Nina once said deer are dumb. I hear the Atlantic on two sides the sister ocean to look and and not think about looking Dear or gentle friend or mothering question Perpetual guest Long Island Duchess beach hostess I am in a floating year. They must all be related by now. The dear like beaches. I imagine a deer walking out of the ocean, the water returning to me as it always will.
![[encore] 647: Walking Across Fire Island by Shelley Wong - The Slowdown: Poetry & Reflection Daily cover](/_next/image?url=https%3A%2F%2Fimg.apmcdn.org%2F44897826446c89eb55b07aa901404286ff7fce63%2Fsquare%2Fa39785-20250516-20250521-slowdown-2000.jpg&w=1920&q=75)