The alchemy of walking.
These thoughts are about the practice of just getting outside and walking during difficult times.
I've done more than my normal amount of walking these past few months.
Believe me,
I'm not just guessing.
My iPhone tells me,
Quote,
On average,
You have walked and run further this year than last year.
So there you go.
As I wrote a few weeks ago,
Our year has gotten off to a very challenging start.
And as I write and read this,
I stand in solidarity today with anyone who faces chronic,
Seemingly intractable family and life and parenting conundrums.
Those kinds that research,
Hard work,
Diligence,
And all the normal problem solving and parenting strategies we scroll through on Instagram don't easily or ever solve.
Yes,
I've learned to ask for and receive more help.
And I've doubled and tripled down on self-compassion.
I've dug deep into micro self-care and the macro variety.
I've used Insight Timer every day,
Read,
Wrote poetry,
Talked to my therapist,
Cuddled with dogs,
Journaled,
And vented.
Even so,
Strong people sometimes feel broken.
So I walk.
I've brought back into my life the COVID era mantra that there is no such thing as bad weather,
Only bad attire.
I walk short distances and long,
Daytime and dark,
Alone sometimes so I can stare at the gargoyles and crocuses.
Other times alone but with company in my ears,
Either the We Can Do Hard Things podcast is my soundtrack,
Or the voice of someone I love listening to my updates and offering needed perspective.
I walk with loved ones,
With my husband,
With my kids.
I walk with friends who show up just to walk with me,
Who come with their dogs or bring their kids to play.
Oh,
Excuse me.
We call it hanging out with mine.
Friends who rally to join me at odd times with full plates and families of their own just to walk.
There's an alchemy to walking I found.
I'm sure that's the whole premise behind the podcast This Morning Walk,
Which I listened to during the pandemic and want to return to.
An alchemy to going outside,
Putting one foot in front of the other,
Specifically not to look for answers,
But just to move.
I don't know exactly what the walking transmutes or transforms,
But every time I get home something has shifted in my body,
In my eyes,
In my mind,
And how I see my world.
One thing that I've held on to with a death grip the past few months has been a weekly writing workshop.
It's a space that bubbles over with compassion.
It's void of judgment,
And it gives me air to breathe and room to feel.
This past week,
Our writing prompt was Joy Harjo's poem,
How Love Blows Through the Trees.
Here's what I wrote in response,
An embrace of the alchemy of walking with friends.
The poem is called Walking.
Four women blew love through the trees yesterday.
Beach drive closed to cars.
Rock Creek Park,
The closest sacred forest to their homes.
They formed a line not to march army-like in the frosty February morn,
But to hold her and walk her forward as she cried under her sunglasses.
They passed the love from mom to mom,
Voice to voice,
And even to Ginger on her leash,
The dog whose eight puppies in a prior life earned her a spot amongst mothers who could understand.
This love between them,
Among them,
Knows how to bend and will never break.
They will walk and walk until,
As one promises,
They will scoot up and down geriatric in their wheelchairs if they have to.
The more a mama's love is used,
The more it makes.
Even if that love is passed not mother to child,
But mother to mother,
Friend to friend,
Broken heart to broken heart.
