Walking in the Present
Of the many milestones parents celebrate while raising children, learning how to walk is ranked among the most cherished moments. With it comes baby gates, cupboard locks, new shoes, and the promise that one day this child will no longer have to be carried on the hip or pushed in a stroller. “I can’t walk!” complained my three-year-old Theo, pulling at my pants leg. The short traverse from our minivan to our church building on Sunday morning feels overwhelming to him. Knowing full well that he can walk, even run, I remember that one day he’ll quit asking me. I scoop him up, trying unsuccessfully to keep his muddy shoes from marking up my clean Sunday shirt. After a few yards the familiar ache in my shoulder sets in. An ache that carries memories of lugging baby carriers and piggy back rides with all four of my children.
My earliest memory of going for a walk is from my childhood in Florida. With only one car which my father drove to work, my mother would often walk us to the local Winn Dixie for groceries. It was only a mile or so, but I still have clear memories of the hot asphalt burning through my Velcro sneakers while the Florida sun beat down on my head. Mom pushed a stroller with my younger brother while I strolled ahead. “Don’t jump in the puddles!” she would yell as I hopped back and forth over the gutter that separated asphalt and crab grass. It was then that I learned how to be mindful of my surroundings. I kept my eyes up looking out for speeding cars, or untethered dogs. “Always walk facing the traffic,” she would tell me. By the time I was in 2nd grade I was walking myself over a mile to school.
At 37 years old I’m thankful for three running vehicles to get me places, but I still walk when I can. I may not be walking for groceries, or walking to get to school. But I still walk with purpose. I walk for exercise, and I walk to practice being present. During the month of June I, along with several friends, are participating in a workout challenge: who can walk/run the most miles in 30 days. Nothing like a little competitive peer group to encourage me to move. Lacing up my old basketball shoes this morning, I head out the door and up the road. I’m committed to walk at least two miles this morning. Not long up the road my knees start to ache. My reward for playing basketball for 24 years. Soon I feel a new pain coming on, my left ankle. Tuesday night’s basketball game took its toll on me once again. My ankle is throbbing. I revise my goal to one mile of walking. The backs of my legs keep itching from the elastic band on my new socks; I stop frequently to swipe at them. “Can I afford to spend 30 minutes of my morning on this walk,” I ask myself. I’m thoroughly distracted by all of the things I must do today. I remind myself to be present in the moment, and within the first quarter of a mile I find my cadence.
It is at this moment, when the worries of the day fall away, and I find my stride, that all of my senses begin to synchronize with the nature around me and my walking becomes almost effortless. Walking in and out of the shade of trees along the road, I can feel the morning sun’s warmth drumming on my back in rhythm with the cool shade of the trees. Hot, cool, hot, cool, this rhythm is briefly interrupted as I walk through a spider’s web suspended across the road, an indication of low traffic. “Screech! Screech!” I look up just in time to see a mockingbird attacking a squirrel who’s trying to cross the road. The squirrel frantically seeks cover. As I ponder the meaning of this, the scent of rain, honeysuckle, and sweat draw me deeper into being present and in the moment. I’ve nearly soaked my shirt now in sweat, and I can feel every change in the wind’s direction, even a light breeze against my skin.
What’s that up ahead? It’s raspberries, fresh wild raspberries. Stopping to admire them, I pick a handful, savoring each juicy bite. I’m grateful for this small pleasure and mindful that they will only be ripe for just a few weeks out of the year. There’s a small creek running along the side of my road through a cow pasture. About a dozen black angus are bathing there up to their shoulders. How nice that must feel. Perhaps I’ll go swimming later.
As I turn around and begin to head home, the stench of something dead overwhelms me. A field mouse lies flat along the side of the road; his fur soaked from last night’s rain. How can such a small creature emit such a powerful odor? Many critters try to cross the road with poor success. A multitude of earthworms have also met their demise. This juxtaposition of vibrant life and tragic death reminds me of my corporeality as I stare at the band aid on my inner elbow. Before my walk this morning, I had blood work done to check on some health markers. “Be present, be grateful,” I think to myself.
Almost home, I’m waved down by a pickup truck. “Are you Drew?” the man asks. “I’m Bob,” he says. It’s my new neighbor who I hadn’t met yet. After a brief chat we discovered that we have much in common, in particular our mutual interest in history. “It’s a little difficult to chat here in the roadway,” I tell him and invite him up to the house. His truck seat is full of stuff so I hop on his rear bumper, holding onto his tailgate. He gives me a ride the rest of the way home. I can feel the wind rushing through my hair, the sweat drying on my tee shirt. Bob ends up visiting for over an hour and I made a new friend. Something that wouldn’t have happened had I not made an effort to go for a walk, to be present.
