As a diehard New Englander, I love to complain about the weather as much, and sometimes more, than the next person. I believe a week of single digit days will make a complainer out of just about anybody. And I believe a single gal with a dog to walk twice a day deserves to complain once in a while. But I am not complaining. Not this time anyway.
Walking the dog twice a day means I go out just after dawn and again at dusk to experience those idyllically quiet times of day when everything is still. Chilly New England winter evenings mean few people, and sometimes snow. When snow falls at twilight, there is a noticeable hush. All other sounds are dampened by the blanket of white. Sometimes, if you listen closely, you can hear the flakes land with a tinkling sound on stubborn leaves clinging to bare branches. It’s blissful.
Imagine a hood pulled up, cumbersome oversized gloves, clunky boots, soft neck warmer, and a dog dragging me down the street to the park. We make fresh tracks on unshoveled sidewalk and head exactly where we are not supposed to be. The park—ok it’s a schoolyard—at the end of the street is an on-leash park, not to be confused with the off-leash park around the corner and down an adjacent street. I know the difference. Leash on, leash off. I get it. A few years ago, I even acted the part of concerned citizen and supported my neighbors who established the Brookline Green Dog Program, the program that designates which parks allow off leash hours and which ones don’t.
I know I am breaking the rules when we play down the street. But I can’t help myself. Apparently it’s in my blood. According to a column in the New Yorker last year (one that I swear exists; I’ve read it, but couldn’t find it again to save my life) rule breaking is part of being Italian. The Italian woman interviewed explained it thus. Italians know the rules. And in knowing the rules, we know where they bend, and we know where they break. Ergo, we knowingly choose which rules to follow and which ones to ignore. Rule breaking by Italians is a long-standing tradition started by the most famous Italian of all, Julius Caesar. If it weren’t for good ol’ Julius* we wouldn’t have the idiom, “crossing the Rubicon” which means committing an act of civil disobedience—rule breaking at its best. Not crossing the river with an army was a rule; Julius broke it. He broke it knowingly, intentionally. On the eve of this egregious act of civil disobedience, Julius didn’t say, “I came, I saw, I thought about crossing the bridge and changed my mind.” I like to believe he said, “I will cross that bridge when I come to it.”** Will and when. It’s a question of intent.
Now back to my story.
The hush of twilight, new fallen snow, a warm coat, and a dog dragging me down the street to the not-off-leash park. I go because the massive and intimidating animal control officer, Francois or Jean Louis (I forget his name, but I swear he’s intimidating notwithstanding his girly name) is a nine to fiver. At around 5:30 there’s no one around but commuters walking home across the park, parents picking up kids from the after-school program, and one or two of my fellow rule-breakers. And that’s how I like it. Although I live in fear of my neighbors’ criticisms or worse, that one of them will call BPD on me, most winter evenings Pepper and I get to cut fresh tracks across the ball field which makes it all feel worth it. Every once in a while, we have an evening like Monday night.
I let her off leash at the top of the stairs so she wouldn’t drag me down the slippery steps. She raced ahead of me to the edge of the field, then bounced around to face me, and waited. Bouncing and waiting, mouth wide open in that carefree, excited doggie grin. A man was walking with his son. He noticed Pepper as she sped past them. He stopped and stared at her, then looked around for her human. I felt guilty and braced myself for the ax of judgment to fall. Conjuring arguments in defense of my rule breaking, I approached him cautiously. I noticed while I approached that he was very intent on solving this puzzle before him. Then he saw the ball in my hand, and something clicked. He smiled warmly, nodded, and called his son over. And they lingered there, in the cold, watching me throw the ball, laughing while Pepper bounded with reckless abandon across the white expanse, legs flying, ears flapping like wings, snow smeared across her face. She exhibited such unmistakably pure joy, it was impossible not to smile at her. The man and his son walked away very, very slowly.
I break this particular rule because these tiny interactions with my neighbors are more positive than almost anything else that happens in my day. It’s better than going to the off-leash park and having my morning ruined by aggressive dog owners. It’s better than driving anywhere in this town. It’s better than going to work where everybody wants something from me (because even doing a job I love for clients I adore can be exhausting). I may be a bit anxious about getting busted, but that is outweighed by the warm orangey glow of the lamplight casting long shadows around us. It’s outweighed by the kids who stare with wonder at Pepper’s impossible energy. It’s outweighed by the man who stopped two weeks ago to ask me if he could have a turn throwing the ball for her. I don’t know his name. I haven’t seen him since. But he made my evening.
It is in these tiny moments that life feels rich and full. The stars shine brightly; the universe sends out a hug. The air, the whole atmosphere, feels tangible and warm. And because my willful, premeditated act of civil disobedience is met with the best sort of neighborliness and kindness, an outcome that challenges the karmic balance of nature, the last thing I am about to do is complain about the weather.
*My dad has always referred to Julius Caesar as “good ol’ Julius” like he was a childhood school chum. I have no idea why. I have always assumed Dad knows something I don’t.
** Julius didn’t say this either. Despite years of assumptions on my part that the two expressions were related, the American Heritage Dictionary says the earliest recorded use of this idiom was by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow in The Golden Legend (1851). A quick glance at the poem reveals a lot of talk about crossing bridges. And the line from the poem reads, “Don’t cross the bridge till you come to it, is a proverb old and of excellent wit.” It’s possible Longfellow was referring to Julius crossing the Rubicon, the original, fateful bridge crossing. I bet I could prove the relationship if I had the energy to do a lot more research. The story works without it, so I’m leaving it alone for now.
Visualizing Shakespeare 