Walk Moments
There’s something very lovely about relaxing into the expanse of a walk. The only thing I have to do is put one foot in front of the other and the only thing I have to decide is which path to take—left or right. The simplicity and finite nature of these decisions is deliciously liberating. The repetitive, easy movement of my body allows my brain to downshift. I can see in a way that’s difficult when I’m occupied with the minutiae of living.
I walk and scribble notes in a notebook tucked in my pocket for this purpose. My health app gently chides me that this does not make for very impressive mile times. Little can it understand that the physical benefits are only one small part of why I’m out here every day.
I am here on a gathering mission. I am gathering thoughts as they wander by. I am gathering moments as I stumble upon them.
A smattering of the moments I have gathered this week:
A mother pushes a stroller laden, not only with a child, but also with backpacks dangling on all sides. Three children circle her like orbiting satellites as she impels her cargo up the hill.
Two cars are stopped in the middle of the street, close to the entrance of a school. A father with gray hair that curls gently in the back where it reaches his shoulders feverishly unloads accoutrements. A mother is unbuckling her diminutive scholars. Their children meet in the middle of the two vehicles, unconcerned by the parental enterprises. One of them wields a Minnie Mouse doll and happily announces, “se llama Minne—Minnie Mouse”. Her pronunciation of the moniker sounds more like “Mimi Mouse” which I think grants the character an air of gentility.
A woman with a mask slung beneath her chin and a face etched with the stresses of the upper echelon variety approaches with an impecable miniature poodle. He stops, curious, to examine my significantly more substantial dog. She observes, “Es muy grande para ti”. But, the tiny dog continues to look, interested. Curious. Cautious.
I hear the exaggerated “Mwah! Mwah!” of hyperbolic morning kisses before school.
Two women embrace, pressing their masked cheeks against one another, then pull back to examine each other’s eyes, searching for something there. It may be as simple as “How did your weekend go?” or a different question altogether. I am helpless to discern as I continue on my trek.
Parts of my walk are so thick with dogs that I can’t even pull out my notebook, for needing to oversee all the greetings my dog insists on.
A woman in a UConn sweatshirt walks determinedly to a point on the sidewalk, snaps a picture and then turns to walk back the way she came. There is something in her manner that convinces me she is an American. I don’t approach her to confirm this suspicion.
Runners pass me with rosy cheeks and small smiles playing on their lips.
Runners pass me with scarlet faces, brows furrowed.
A man in a pageboy cap, lamb chop sideburns and a track suit sidles past me on a narrow path between bristling dried cane plants.
There are sections of my walk where the ascent is so punishing that I become only a body. Blood pumping in my head. Breath flowing in and out. No thinking. No processing. Until my mind barges back in—considering the state of being only a body with blood pumping and breath flowing. No one told me that parts of Barcelona resemble the relentless hills of San Francisco.
I hear the unison foot falls before I see them. I am quickly overtaken by the young recruits in their matching grey shirts and blue shorts, like an overgrown gym class.
A split in the hill inexplicably reminds me of Iceland, though I am at a loss to know why. It bears no physical resemblance that I can divine. But then, recognition is a bit like that—picking up on a detail so minute and so specific it defies conscious perception.
A group kitted out for a day in the mountains is huddling in pre-adventure planning. Each hiker bears a laminated map. I wonder what their day holds. I envy them their anticipatory excitement.
Boards creak beneath my feet as I walk across a wooden bridge. It sounds as though a little bird is following underneath, chirping a tune in Disney-like domestication.
I smell smoke from a wood stove. I don’t have the expertise to differentiate between the aromas of different varieties of wood. But, whatever is burning inside is filling the entire passageway with the most amazing scent.
A mother kneels on the cobblestones, zipping up her daughter’s coat. Her son runs his hands through the fur lining of her hood, tenderly petting it.
After a walk, I’m loose. I’m open. I’ve been inhabiting a space of curiosity. I’ve been tuned in to listening. The movement of my body means I’m filled with a deep sense of well-being. I have been freely imbibing the medicine found in looking far into the distant vista.