If you’ve been following this little blog, you know that I walk a lot.
If this is your first time visiting, you will soon find out that I walk a lot.
In fact, I have walked almost every single day for several years now. Some days those walks are long and difficult, sometimes short and sweet. I try to amble for at least 30 minutes, but more regularly I puff along for one to two hours.
I started regular walking because I could no longer run — at least I’m not supposed to, according to my orthopedist. After years of long distances my knees finally launched a permanent protest, creaking loudly and painfully at every pounded turn and planting “Hell No We Won’t Go” signs in my running shoes. But as anyone who has been a runner knows, sitting still is not an option.
“I know you don’t believe this,” that same orthopedist, who had done three surgeries on my knees tried to press his no-running campaign again. “But walking is just as much exercise as running.”
So I took up brisk walking, to make up for the runner’s high and because he swore he wouldn’t do my next surgery.
Years later, when I was hit with a cancer diagnosis, I paused my walking. Instead, I sat down first to stare in shock at my navel. Then I continued to sit through radiation because it made me tired. And, I remained seated through the poisonous medications that followed because, well, they were poisonous. Eventually, however, it came to me that sitting was giving in. Also, my oncologist told me to get off my butt and stop feeling sorry for myself.
“Fear and inactivity are more likely to kill you,“ he blithely warned. “You will feel much better if you move every day.“
Later, when I decided to take my chances by not taking any more poison, my oncologist dumped me. Even so, I thought his walking advice was sound.
So I got back up and walked. Every day for at least 30 minutes, this time for my health, both mental and physical. Cancer is depressing. Movement, I found out, really did get my mind off it.
I walked through my graduate school program because I learned that walking increases creativity. I collected a lot of research about walking, especially walking out in nature, to back that statement up. I watched researchers talk-up walking and creativity on the TedX stage. And then I walked a thousand miles to prove to myself that what they said was true.
Eventually, I built a thesis around walking as a tool for elevating writing, which took a lot more walking. More recently I developed a walking writers workshop (join a workshop at Compass Writers)
Last year, Posie found me. What can I say? A dog’s gotta walk.
Clearly, I’ve given myself, or been given, a lot of reasons to keep my feet on the road.
But today the pooch and I were meandering through the woods in one of our favorite walking parks (Discovery Park/Seattle), slowly taking in various Puget Sound-facing vistas and smelling the remnants of dogs who had preceded us on the path, when I realized that none of the above explanations answers the question “Why do I walk?”
There was a slight breeze rustling the trees and the sun streamed through dappling the leaves that surrounded us. There was a smell in the air, a mix of sea, and fern, and sewage from the nearby plant. The smell of plant debris. The smell of marijuana recently exhaled.
Posie and I moved in a rhythm, not fast, but fluid, our tempos aligned. My breath took on a pattern: sniff, sniff, sniff in, ha, ha, ha out. Like a dance. 1, 2, 3 . . . 1, 2, 3 . . .
The answer came in this dance: I walk to feel my wholeness; to feel every aspect of myself engaged, in sync, present.
As I move I am aware of that breath and its funny little pattern, aware of the heart that beats below it, aware of the blood and oxygen flowing throughout my limbs and veins and tissues to enable this engagement.
As I move, every muscle and organ plays a part -- my legs are holding me up, propelling me forward, my arms are pumping for balance, my fingers and toes tingling from the rush of fluid replacing itself. My back muscles, spine, core are working hard to keep me erect, my eyes watch the horizon to place my body in space. My sense of smell and hearing are more acute — I assume following the primal instruction to listen for and smell danger before it strikes.
When I walk all of “me” is activated, elevated, illuminated from the inside out. I am in the act of being fully alive. In this sense, walking is life-giving just as breath gives life.
I wanted to send an Amber Alert-style message to every other human on the planet that said simply “Walk to live!” But I quickly right-sized that myopic reaction.
Sadly, a lot of people are unable to walk. Illness, paralysis, weight, joint injury, aging, imprisonment, oppression, depression. There are so many barriers to partaking or enjoying this simple, liberating act.
This is my reminder to remain in gratitude. How blessed am I that I am able?
If you can walk, how blessed are you?
No matter how you find or get yourself outside, I want to make an invitation:
If you can walk, if you are willing, consider meeting your body and your mind in a new way by stepping on a path in a more regular way. Perhaps you start with just 10 minutes a day. Work up to 30. Celebrate the act of your body fully engaged, freeing the creative centers of your brain.
And when you return, write down what you felt, saw, and heard on your path. Keep a book of your walking thoughts.
If you cannot ambulate, your body still yearns to walk on its own path in its own way. Reach out to another human and ask to be helped outside, even for a short while. Start with 10 minutes. Work up to 30. If you are in a wheelchair, feel and listen to all the parts of you that are engaged as you roll along that path.
If you can only sit, then sit. Feel all the parts of you active and alive in your sitting.
Write what you see, feel, hear, smell when all of you, as you are, is actively fully engaged.
I am eager to read what you find, so if you feel brave, send me your writing: cherylmurfin@gmail.com
Yesterday I took a walk on a forest service road not far from where I live. Here are the words that came as my body propelled fully alive down that road:
Curve in the Road
Here
At the curve
In the road
The climbs a timid mountain
I am
Hugged by trees
On both sides
Invited
I let myself go
And be held
By scratchy bark
And knobby needles
By dusty loggers byway
Pitted with potholes
Which are
Nature's way
Of taking back the night
Of saying Fuck You
To trucks and cars and unaware humans
Here
I let myself go
And be soothed
By the living breath
The inhale of the roots below
The exhale of the sky above
By a million eyes
And legs
I cannot see
But seeing me all the same
By a vast and reaching network
Of energy and light
A network of communication
Woven all around me
Connecting rock, tree, insect, animal, me
Here
At this curve
— C. Murfin, 2021
Comments