Walking
Once I dreamed of running a marathon. When I was a girl, I accompanied my dad as we ran and talked and planned our next training session. I worked up to 30 or 35 or 40 miles per week when I was in my teens and twenties. Runner’s World magazine was my go-to resource, and I consulted its articles for my training. A weekly mileage plan of 6 | 3 | 6 | 3 | 9 | 3 miles per day, with one day off, was a favorite of mine.
I ran to get in and stay in shape. The mileage was an obsession. What I didn’t realize at the time was that I was also building my ability to focus. Much like meditation, running forced me to focus on my breathing. Meditation was not a part of my repertoire when I was younger, but I now see that running was a form of meditation. Most of my solo runs started with a rundown of my to-do list, and at around the 20-minute mark, I let go of the list and surrendered instead to the flow.
Running with my dad was a little different: we strengthened our relationship as our discussion topics ranged from the mundane—the weather—to the serious—the state of our family or the nation. He would infuriate me with his patience as he listened to me get energized at this or that, including the weather. Early March in Wisconsin could be particularly challenging for outdoor running. The temperature was often below freezing even in March and some years below zero Fahrenheit (-17.8 Celsius)…even in March! I found this to be unfair and wrong since we had already endured months of cold and darkness. He remained unconcerned but listened throughout my complaining. Give it a week, he would say. His demeanor has had a lasting effect on me. As an adult I sometimes hear his voice in my head when I listen to someone’s complaints and I try to pause and hold my reaction.
I never ran that marathon, but I routinely experienced the bliss of forgetting that I was running, and then marveling after my run was over that I had covered 6 or 7 or 8 miles. It was transcendent.
It was hard to give up running. I continued to think of myself as a runner even when I was not running regularly. Moving to the Texas heat, having children, and working all conspired to keep me from attaining the mileage that put me in a focused state. Running two and three miles was never enough and I struggled to attain the fitness level that let me run 6 or 7 miles with ease.
I tried walking as sport, but that activity was a pale alternative to the thrill of running. Walking was certainly helpful in moving myself from point A to point B. I walked to work, loved touring travel destinations by foot, and took the stairs as often as I could. Still, I never considered walking to be enough. I dreamed of those long distance runs.
In my 50s I learned how to incorporate yoga into my fitness routine. With the help of Adriene Mischler of Yoga with Adriene, I practiced yoga in my own space on my own timetable. Her video recordings on YouTube organized by calendar month make yoga particularly accessible. I have fond memories of working through the January 2020 calendar while I was in Tokyo on a business trip. Perhaps that practice helped me navigate that scary time when the pandemic hit as I was traveling back to the US.
With my crushing physical limitations of the last few years, it has been challenging and often impossible to maintain a yoga practice. Even so, I treasure yoga’s emphasis on the breath. Running required attention to breathing, but I was not as aware of the centrality of my breath. It was yoga that taught me of the breath’s role in my ability to focus.
I tried regular meditation for the first time in 2021. For two months that fall I took time away from my job and I committed to daily meditation and yoga. I read Thich Naht Hanh’s Fear and explored the Buddhist philosophy of impermanence. Starting in December 2021 during my various medical emergencies, I leaned on meditation to help me stay focused on the present moment instead of spiraling off on a scary ride of tomorrow’s potentials. The Five Remembrances have been especially valuable to me in navigating fears large and small. I outlined the Five Remembrances in the Remission Again post:
As my on again, off again recovery dragged on, I found it increasingly difficult to focus for any length of time. This lovely passage from Thich Naht Hanh provided a simple on-ramp:
When we feel anger, irritation, or indignation arising in us, we pause. We stop and come back to our breathing straight away. We wait until we’re calm again.
Being able to pause is the greatest gift. It gives us the opportunity to bring more love and compassion into the world rather than more anger and suffering.
Nevertheless, of late, it has not been easy for me to meditate every day, even for a short minute or two. When I have physical and emotional space, I remember to pause. And when I try, odds are in my favor that I can calm my central nervous system. When it works it’s glorious. It’s just that there a lot of conditions packed into this habit, not the least of which are physical pain and my anger at the duration of my rehabilitation. Meditation would be the best activity for me to calm my physical and psychic pain. And my pain is often that which prevents me from taking the first step.
Committing to walking fills the need for me at this time. Walking might just be the meditation vehicle I’ve been seeking.
Above all, do not lose your desire to walk: every day I walk myself into a state of well-being and walk away from every illness; I have walked myself into my best thoughts, and I know of no thought so burdensome that one cannot walk away from it. Even if one were to walk for one's health and it were constantly one station ahead—I would still say: Walk!
Besides, it is also apparent that in walking one constantly gets as close to well-being as possible, even if one does not quite reach it—but by sitting still, and the more one sits still, the closer one comes to feeling ill. Health and salvation can be found only in motion... if one just keeps on walking, everything will be all right.
(Source: Letters and Documents by Søren Kierkegaard; hat tip to friend of the blog Gloria)
The march of health appointments and administration no longer defines my life completely. The three-year anniversary of my entry into serious health care came and went on December 4, 2024. In February 2025, after three long weeks of walking with crutches post skin graft on my leg, I was back to a reasonably active lifestyle. (I marvel at those who rehabilitate on crutches for months or longer.)
Walking started off as rehabilitation to tend to my muscles that support my joints and internal organs. Anyone who has had surgery knows the brusque order by the nurse to get up and walk. As a patient, it seems impossible. Today, I am grateful that I can walk. For the latest surgery, walking has helped my circulation and the healing process of my skin graft and donor site for the graft.
The value of walking has extended beyond the physical. After years of diminishing walking as a serious sport, I am starting to discern its goodness beyond physical health. Friend and reader Gloria shared this quote from William James that jolted something loose in me:
I am done with great things and big things, great institutions and big success, and I am for those tiny, invisible molecular moral forces that work from individual to individual, creeping through the crannies of the world like so many rootlets, or like the capillary oozing of water, yet which if you give them time, will rend the hardest monuments of man's pride.
Walking, in the context of this quote, might be even more profound than I had ever recognized. Walking could potentially confer more benefits than physical fitness. Walking for me is literally getting out of my house and into the world of people. For someone who has spent the better part of the last 3+ years either in a medical setting or on my bed, getting out is of critical importance.
On a walk, I can talk with my walking companion. If we remain silent, we can adjust our strides to match tempo. When we encounter friends and neighbors, we often stop for a conversation. If we meet someone we don’t yet know, we might say hi, and if that person has a dog, we often engage in dog talk.
All of this small talk could strain my introverted self to no end if the small talk were not accompanied by physical activity. The combination of activity and connecting to others is what makes the difference for me. And when I reflect on those connections with other people, I am grateful. Like with my dad, I wonder what memory of my neighbor will be evoked in me in my future. And what effect I might have on my neighbor.
One frustration of my health saga was the abrupt end of my professional career. I had aspirations in my role as a technical communicator that were not always realized, and I thought that I would get back to it at some point. Of course, in the early days of forced retirement, I was relieved that I didn’t need to tend to my demanding job but instead focus on rebuilding my health. Now as my health has improved, I wonder about my role in the world, my next great thing. But maybe I don’t need to fret about that at this time and instead revel in the next walk.
It doesn’t have to be a walk
Not everyone likes to walk or even can walk. Chris has found focus and connection with others at Barton Springs Pool.
This post resonates with me in all the best ways. It lifts my spirits and brings me clarity. I will repeat the last paragraph over and over to remind myself of all that’s good about improving and just moving forward on a walk by the Hudson River. When the world feels unfamiliar or fragile, these are the posts I turn to for comfort and solace. Thank you for being such a wonderful writer and friend, Leah. 💙
This was certainly an encouraging post from you! I heard a more relaxed and hopeful Leah in this.
There was a time when I was a runner. Not a serious racer or someone who compared myself to other runners. I just ran for fun with a neighbor who, like me, was trying to get back into shape after giving birth. Sometimes I wish I had been more serious but when I went back to work after maternity leave, I just wasn’t motivated enough to keep up a running schedule.
I can imagine you as a runner who dreamed of running a marathon. But your months of healing have been a marathon you never dreamed of or wanted. My wish for you is to be at peace with your life and your body after so many months. I know you probably felt like it was betraying you when the healing you needed was so long in coming or when a medication given to you to help you was what your body took and instead it harmed you. I hope that is all in the past. I’m looking forward to an in-person visit!