NAVEL GAZING: excessive absorption in self-analysis or focus on a single issue

Walking

[Since then, walking became something more than just walking—it is a way to quiet the thoughts of failure that follow me. These disruptive thoughts are temporarily silenced as I push myself along the trail.]

...I'd be plugged into one of the many podcasts on my phone. I walked anywhere from five to seven miles each morning after dropping the boys at school. I needed an escape and nothing proved better than walking.

Over time, the trail became familiar—not just the path itself, but the people who walked it:

There's George, the elderly man who defies his age with a fast walk and long stride, often shirtless and tossing a rock between his hands. "Another crappy day," he'll quip on a beautiful sunny morning.

A young woman, built like a linebacker, maintains an astonishingly fast run and greets you with a high-raised arm and a wide smile.

An elderly Asian woman jogs slowly, frequently stopped by those emboldened by her friendly Golden Retriever. She doesn't seem to mind the interruptions, always happy to make small talk.

Occasionally, I run into Terri, a former classmate and ex-girlfriend of one of my few lifelong friends. I faintly remember her from high school as a pretty girl with an edge, but over the years, that edge has softened—perhaps worn down by a successful teaching career and a lasting marriage that shaped a picturesque family.

Most notable, though, was a man whom I befriended along the trail.  He was easily recognized from a distance. I never discovered what caused his impairment, whether a stroke or perhaps some terrible accident—we never exchanged many words—but it made him stand out. And yet, that wasn't what drew me to him.

Was it simply his olive skin and good looks, or something deeper— something perceived from the careful movements and quiet persistence of an older man. His age was just about perfect. He reminded me of my Papa Joe.

In my childhood, whenever my grandparents stayed overnight, Papa was always the first to rise. He moved quietly to the downstairs bathroom, careful not to wake anyone. Long after he left, the faint scent of his aftershave lingered, a quiet reminder of him. Even now, the scent of Aqua Velva brings the memory rushing back.

He was skilled at sketching Native Americans, bringing them to life on paper wearing feathered headdresses and riding wild horses. A sensitive man, Papa could never read a birthday card aloud without his voice trembling and tears welling in his eyes.

[We never let go of that tradition—the reading of cards aloud. Even now, I follow the rule, though the applause for my reading skills has long since faded. The ritual remains, quietly binding us across generations.]

He was also strong and disciplined, forged through nearly fifty years with the Santa Fe Pacific Railroad. He worked seven-day shifts during World War II, moving raw materials for fighter planes and delivering food to U.S. troops and families. Even in retirement, he never stopped. He built a house for himself and Nanny, rising each morning to tend the property, the home, the life he had carefully built for them.

Some of my fondest childhood memories are of summer days with Nanny and Papa Joe, when my younger brother and I would stay for weeks at a time. Raised in the city, we found excitement in what were routine chores to him. He would drag fallen trees up the hill with his truck's winch, and we'd watch from a safe distance as he cut them into rounds with his chainsaw. Later, we'd split the rounds with a wedge and sledgehammer, carefully stacking them in crisscross patterns to season with the other piles. The work was hard, but it felt like an adventure.

I thought about Papa often when I saw the man on the trail. Like Papa, he moved with purpose, even when his body resisted. Often, he would stop to stretch, sometimes groaning as if in pain. There were many times when I quietly passed, not wanting to draw his attention and embarrass him. But one day, as I neared the Norwood Bridge, he caught my eye. It became clear he needed help. Despite his difficulty speaking, his gestures told me his glasses strap had broken. I tied it with a square knot, and after a few struggled attempts to enunciate his appreciation, he limped off.

Our friendship began that day. Each morning after, I carried an extra leash in my pocket, waiting for the next time I'd see him. It felt good to help someone who so obviously needed it. When we met on the trail, we'd stop and share a few quiet moments—nods, grins, a pat on the shoulder before continuing on our way. There's a warm feeling you get with certain people, a mutual happiness that shows in each other's eyes.

And then, one day, he was gone. Weeks passed before I found the reason—an announcement posted on a tree. His name, his picture, the details of his funeral.

One morning, long ago, Nanny found Papa Joe on the ground near his bed. They had maintained separate rooms for as long as I could remember, because of Papa's snoring. During the night, he had suffered a stroke. He recovered, but years later, another came. We all gathered at the Boston Kaiser Hospital. I remember sitting beside him, seeing something in his face I never had before—fear. It was unsettling, foreign. And yet, all seemed to be going well. Until suddenly, it wasn't. It still haunts me, the strange wording from the ICU nurse: "We're expecting a catastrophic event." And much like my own father's recent passing, also in an ICU room and at first unexpected, the end came much too fast.

I miss running into the man on the trail. I often wondered about his life, his past, the details that remained unknown. And yet, it felt as though I knew him well. Enough to believe he was a good person. Enough to call him a friend. Our brief exchanges gave me a break from my own worries, a reason to feel good about myself.

Now, others walk that same stretch of trail, the one extending from Norwood to Westwood. Some may recognize me—the man with graying hair, always with a Starbucks cup in hand, quick to smile and greet those who pass. They may have noticed that for years, I walked alone. But now, I'm often accompanied by another—a younger man who shares my features, my walk, even my coffee order. He's my second-born son, Noah, and like his dad, he starts each morning with a Grande Pike Place in a venti cup, with steamed cream.

Still, every so often, as we pass beneath the trees or pause near the Norwood Bridge, my mind drifts back to someone else—someone whose name I only learned too late. I think of the man who walked those same miles with quiet determination, whose path once crossed mine in ways that left a mark. I miss him more than I expected. And when I think of him, I often find myself thinking of Papa Joe, too. His humble strength, his persistence, his quiet dignity—that reminded me so much of my grandfather. To see shades of Papa in someone else was rare. To feel that same steadiness of spirit, that quiet resolve that doesn't ask for recognition, even briefly, felt like a gift. It honors Papa's memory.

Maybe one day, someone will see in me what I once saw in him—that quiet familiarity, that unspoken connection. Maybe, without knowing why, they'll remember me long after I've stopped walking these trails. And perhaps, in that moment, they'll be reminded that you never truly know what hardship someone has endured—that behind each quiet presence, each passing nod or familiar face, there is a story unseen, a life shaped by struggles and resilience.