Walking

“My grandmother started walking five miles a day when she was sixty. She’s ninety-seven now, and we don’t know where the heck she is.”
― Ellen DeGeneres

I hope I can walk until I’m 97.  And I wouldn’t mind disappearing into the woods. It would be a good way to go.  When I’m walking, some part of me is still a boy, curious, piqued with little wonders at the sights along the way, eager to be in the forest, on the grassy hillside, smelling the air along the shore or stream, or ambling under the neighborhood trees as the evening comes on and the stars come out.  I still feel this even now as I move into my 60s, and I hope I feel it in my 80s and 90s.

We spend much time these days pushing to get ahead, don’t we?  To get to the end of endless lists, to finish our projects, to get through a barrage of email correspondence, to make it home through the traffic, to get through the week. For many of us, our hours are full of pushing and pushing, stretched thin.

A short morning or evening walk can be the perfect medicine to bring us into the ease of the present moment. There is something immediate about walking, something old and real and settling. It’s built deep into us, and brings us back to what is original. The pace of walking is not modern, not high-speed, not efficient. It’s not goal-oriented, but here-oriented. The breath grows naturally deeper and calmer. One sighs, the good kind of sigh, of letting go, of coming back to center, to a little peace.

Rhythm of foot, scent and touch of air, breath in nostrils and lungs, small sounds of leaves and bird voices, all quiet and calm me.  Fewer people walk these days, though. The car is easier, faster, more efficient, and we get addicted to our adrenaline-fueled fast pace and forget the joy of slowness and foot on the earth.  It takes an effort to slow, the healthy decision to go out for a walk.

Last weekend I walked a forest trail with an old friend that clung to the steep slopes of a gorge.  We talked some, but grew quiet as the trees.  We arrived at a clear broad pool at the base of an out-bounding waterfall and swam in water so clear and cold it felt scalding.  I tried to swim close to the falls, but the current of the outspreading water pushed me back.  So I swam along the shoreline beneath the ferns and graceful branches. Then we walked again down the trail, happy.

Not every walk has a waterfall, but the simple quiet of walking is a gentle cascade that will wash away many concerns and tensions of the day.

“Now shall I walk or shall I ride?
‘Ride,’ Pleasure said;
‘Walk,’ Joy replied.”
― W.H. Davies

Poem of the Week:  Coming Back

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