Photo by Sebastien Goldberg | Unsplash
As a type A personality in recovery, I have logged more than my fair share of purposeful steps. The ancient Greek physician Hippocrates of Kos, known as the “father of medicine,” is quoted as having said “Walking is a man’s best medicine.” Throughout my adult life, I’ve taken that precept literally.
My daily walks have long been aimed at raising my heart rate and accumulating sufficient steps to close two of the three circles on the tracking device strapped to my wrist. If I please the device, it will reward me with a cheery bit of haptic feedback. This reminds me that I am accomplishing something. On days when my to-do list feels overwhelming, that small wrist ping helps me feel less guilty about the mound of laundry that goes unfolded or the writing deadline I’ve botched. Hey, at least I got my steps in, I assure myself.
But since my diagnosis with cancer last year, my walks have taken on a different tenor. Don’t worry. I’m on the mend with one of five years of treatment nearly behind me. But my path to recovery has been focused not only on rehabilitating my body but also—and perhaps more significantly—on caring for my soul and spirit. This has caused the transformation of my walks from statistical trudges into whimsical adventures.
My path to recovery has been focused not only on rehabilitating my body but also—and perhaps more significantly—on caring for my soul and spirit. This has caused the transformation of my walks from statistical trudges into whimsical adventures.
Walking and I have a history. In my sixty-plus years, I’ve walked/run three marathons, completed a 320-mile walking pilgrimage, and logged enough miles on treadmills to circumnavigate the globe multiple times.
So three weeks after my twelve-hour cancer surgery a year ago, I was devastated when I laced up to hit the sidewalk and discovered a new state of affairs. That first day, with my husband and encourager at my side, I hobbled a mere quarter of a mile. I returned home in tears, frustrated by the degradation of my body in such a short time.
Now, a little over a year later, I see that starting from scratch with my walking has been an unexpected gift. First and foremost, my daily walks have given me a potent way to count my blessings. I no longer take my mobility for granted. This means I also no longer sneer at the older, slower people who are messing with my pace. Instead, they are soulmates, striding reminders that we all walk for many different reasons.
We know from reading scripture that Jesus and his followers were big walkers who carried big sticks. Audrey Hepburn loved walking with her dogs and purportedly talked with them to “keep me sane.” Steve Jobs preferred to take his meetings while on a long walk. Naturalist John Muir advised, “Walk away quietly in any direction and taste the freedom of the mountaineer.”
My walks these days are slower, less directive, more soulful, and also more fun. My favorite paths are the beach five miles from my home or the circuitous route around the perimeter of the college campus in our neighborhood. But I also love discovering new places to wander. When I visit somewhere new, I always ask my host or the hotel clerk for their favorite places to stroll.
We know from reading scripture that Jesus and his followers were big walkers who carried big sticks. Audrey Hepburn loved walking with her dogs and purportedly talked with them to “keep me sane.” Steve Jobs preferred to take his meetings while on a long walk. Naturalist John Muir advised, “Walk away quietly in any direction and taste the freedom of the mountaineer.”
I have become an accidental birder and a wildflower seeker, pausing for long gaps of time to find the source of a song hidden or a flowering weed in a nearby bush. I no longer fear pauses along my walks that drive up my “time per mile” statics. Ambling is allowed these days.
Audiobooks are my occasional walk companions, as are the loud, driving beats of Beyonce, Garth Brooks, praise hymns, and whatever TikTok ditty gets stuck in my head. When I’m alone on the trail, I belt out off-tune accompaniment.
Twice a month, I walk at Disneyland, where my annual pass gives me permission to skip all of the rides and simply people-watch. I often concoct stories in my head about the people I pass along my hiking trails, rushing home to fill my idea journal with the tales I’ve told myself about my fellow walkers. Last week, I intentionally and slowly tailed a pair of octogenarians and their walkers for a quarter of a mile simply to enjoy the melody of their infectious laughs as they hobbled along.
Walking has become my communion with the Source of all goodness and beauty. He knows and measures my steps. No device is necessary.
