At the risk of sounding precious...

...and self-serving and all kinds of other naughty things...

About two years ago, I sprang for real, live Apple earbuds. I’d owned a drawerful of the knock-offs, which would quit or start buzzing or in other ways earn the title of “knock-off.” I wear the fancy earbuds while walking and listening to books. It has been a good investment.

This weekend, New England (or my part of it) had unseasonably warm weather, and once I finished my household chores, I took off for a walk, earbuds at the ready. I’m listening to “Braiding Sweetgrass,” which I began because my local library is having a book discussion about it later this month (you should totally come!). I was quickly hooked, so much that I switched the book I’m teaching next semester for my school’s honors book club to “Sweetgrass.” The idea of slowing down and looking at plants is a message I believe I need to hear right now. The idea that they are living beings appealed to me, too.

For my walk, I’d dressed for the usual November weather — t-shirt, sweatshirt, sweats — but as I turned around for home, I stopped to pull of my sweatshirt and heard a quiet “plunk.” My right earbud was gone, and as I kicked through the leaves looking for it, I chastised myself for thinking I could pull off a sweatshirt without removing the buds first, and for paying $200+ for such a small item so easily lost.

Technically, southern New England is past peak leaf-peeping, but it’s still pretty awesome up here, and the owners of this particular yard had not been raking. Still, hope springs eternal. I stood going through the fallen leaves for half an hour, right up until dark started gathering beneath the trees. Taking a page from “Sweetgrass” (and my Bible), I decided that the bud is just a plastic thing, and things are impermanent.

This is not my usual approach. I cling to my things as much as the next person and if I start to feel guilty about that, I remind myself that I grew up poor and…oh, who am I kidding? I am of the age where that’s no longer an excuse, but how long did I want to stay on this road kicking at leaves? Cars were starting to slow down, so I headed home.

Here’s where this becomes self-serving, I’m afraid: I was nearing home with one earbud working when a woman heading the other way and walking a chill dog asked if I was me. When you write for the public, you often find yourself prepared to say no, because you don’t know what will follow.

But I said yes, and she told me she still carries in her wallet an essay I wrote for the Hartford Courant in the 1980s. The piece was about a woman who was suffering through a tough breakup, which the actual woman in front of me was suffering through at the time, as well. I’d included a line that the young woman I was writing about faced some tough decisions, and at the time that moved the woman in front of me to go ahead with the breakup.

Things are good now, she said, and she then she said that she knew I lived in the area and she reassured me that she wasn’t a stalker, but wanted at some point to thank me.

In 40+ years in journalism, I can count on two fingers the times this has happened, and both times have brought me up short. Writing is a lonely activity and that’s OK with me, and if you think about what impact you might or might not have with your words, you’ll go through life disappointed. The words are a song that might appeal to people, and then again, they might not. You just keep singing because you don’t know how to not.

Here’s where I start to sound precious: Had I had the other earbud in, I wouldn’t have heard her say my name, and she didn’t seem the type to touch my arm to get my attention. I’ve had people stop me in other venues and laughingly say they’d tried to talk to me while I was on a walk, but that I just kept walking. I tell them it’s because I wear earbuds and can’t hear anything but what’s being piped directly into my ears. These are — or were — very good earbuds.

The next day, I needed a tool to replace a part in my dishwasher (thank you, helpful video that walked me through the process) and on my way back from the hardware store, I thought to stop and — what the hell — kick through the leaves just one more time. If I still couldn’t find the bud, then I made a promise to myself that I would just move on, no regrets.

And you guessed it. There was the earbud, right where I thought I’d dropped it, under this amazingly brilliant maple leaf. Maybe the bud just needed a break, or wanted to go camping beneath the leaves for an evening. I picked it up and said quietly, “Well, you little fucker,” without thinking, which is too bad because a nice lady was walking behind me at that moment and I had to explain to her I wasn’t calling her names. She ended up laughing at my short saga, and we parted if not friends, then not enemies.

OK. This week is going to be a hell of a week. Let’s all take a page from “Sweetgrass” and slow down a little. If you haven’t already, go vote. And stay strong.