The thing about going for a walk, no matter where or when, or who may or may not be coming along, is that whatever mix of emotions and thoughts are within the heart-mind of the walker, they tend to come too. You know, “Wherever you go, there you are.”

Shortly after the November election, my longtime friend Nanda Currant and I met in Moss Landing for an early morning walk along the Salinas River. Nanda came south from Santa Cruz and I went north from Monterey. It was back in 1987 when we were teaching for the same homeschool program that Nanda and I became friends. Was it our work with young children and a similar sensibility regarding education that drew us together? We shared a love of poetry and the earth, and both of us were artists, our southern Italian spiciness only reinforced our sisterhood.

Soon after becoming friends, we published a book — a selection of my poems accompanied by Nanda’s drawings — called “The No-Child Poems.” Later, one of her pastels became the cover artwork for my first poetry collection. But it was years after that when Nanda and I were drawn closer together. She invited me to join a small group of people sitting into the night with a mutual friend as she was dying. Being at a death together does something to a friendship; it deepens it.

The mid-November morning that we met to take a walk was very cold outside for us along the Central Coast — 39 degrees — and Nanda was bundled from head to toe. Around her neck was a camera with a telephoto lens. We hugged and enjoying a hot drink, sat across from each other at the Power Plant Café. Getting right to the point, Nanda said, “I am not doing well,” to which I responded, “Nor am I.” We looked each other with the ease of long friendship, though her face was tinged with a fear I’d never seen before. Neither of us tried to alleviate the other’s concerns. We sat in the sorrow together, and by sharing our anxiety, the shelter between us was strengthened.

And then we went for the walk we’d planned on, back when we hoped it would be a celebratory occasion. At the end of Potrero Road there are two signs to look for should you wish to go, and I promise, you’ll not regret taking this 1.5-mile walk. The first reads: “Salinas River State Beach” and the second, “Sandholdt Lot,” which also lists the park hours as being open from “AM — Sunset.” I love that—pretty much the hours I keep too!

As much as I wish they hadn’t, and though they took up no physical space in our backpacks, our fear and confusion about the election came too, and that made walking on the dry ground feel like slogging through mud. The wide, flat trail travels between the Salinas River on one side and sand dunes on the other that hide the ocean from view. The river entranced us, how it glittered in the early morning light catching rays of the clear day’s sun. We saw otters, even a mother otter cradling her baby, seals dipping and diving, playing together. And many birds — herons and egrets, pelicans and gulls, sandpipers and grebes. Water infiltrates the land there and forms little streams wending through, making me think I must study and learn from the subtle determination of water. And then there was the brilliant blue sky — immense and leaning down so low!

Being in that less than familiar place and seeing new things didn’t alleviate my fears but it did place them in a larger context. The abundant beauty gave us a little solace, a few moments of reprieve. The feeling of being overwhelmed and confounded by the election results, this too was true. Mostly though, what I experienced with Nanda was a sense of mutuality; it is less burdensome to carry the difficult together. And there are so very many of us who do stand for truth; our votes made claim to that.

Come walk with me along the river so we can shore each other up, speak individually and collectively, and move forward in honesty, integrity, respect and power.