There is something in me that mistrusts pleasure. Or sanity, for that matter.
I mean, why sit by the lovely resort pool when I can careen half a mile over slippery, sharp rocks to get the other end of the beach during high tide? Or walk through 40 different kinds of mud through the inhospitable misty and cold landscape to the Brontes’ weather-beaten Haworth? Or take a gentle bike ride around a picturesque village, when I, burdened with a jug of water and a granola bar, can instead, walk aimlessly for hours, passing no other miserable, sunburned walker sweating in a moisture-wicking tee shirt, looking like a particularly ill-used hostage.
I have heard that there are very valid reasons for walking – like spending quality time with a friend, purchasing a cappuccino, or watching ducks being stupid in a pond.
I am also told that there are those who prefer to amble towards some place, and when they (soon) get there, sit down.
And when booking a holiday they are apt to focus on whether or not the property provides an adequate electric kettle and if their room has an ocean view. Where their idea of physical activity is to walk from the bed to the bar fridge and back. And where they best define a holiday as “lying down in the sun like soft pizza-dough with a glass of wine and a book, getting up five to seven days later.”
No, it seems I prefer, like the royal family, “walking around in terrible weather wearing the thickest socks imaginable”, every day’s ramble showing me fresh wonders and new blisters.
I find you can tell a lot about a person by where they walk, because as author Rebecca Solnit points out, walking remains “essentially unimproved since the dawn of time.”
Walking, the slowest form of travel, is the quickest route to our more authentic selves – or of not getting much of anywhere. Or lost.
Walking is personal. Cautious roamers to power striders. Some strut. Some cowboy swagger. Some wander around like a lost spectre. Some walk like a kan chiong spider. Some walk the Paris Fashion Week runway. A tightrope. The Camino. Marathons.
Being an unapologetic voyeur gives you time to reflect on your life choices. Of pondering particular abilities that don’t count for much. Marvelling on the uncanny ability to mangle lyrics beyond recognition. On questionable fashion choices. Of being freshly showered and more or less odourless.
Wandering around alone doesn’t look like the kind of leisure some would consider time “well spent.” Yet it is time some of us would defend as valuable. It is valuable for its own sake, not because it prepares us for more important tasks. It requires no special skill other than an openness to enjoy things as they arise.
In our age of constant distraction and restless productivity, our one task is to care less about external validation. “Likes”. “Followers”. It might be better spent accompanied by an espresso, a library lamp, and classical music.
Reflection requires courage. It’s thoughtful, and it’s deliberate. With the right mindset, every walk is a pilgrimage, a doorway to the new and revelatory.
So in the final greige coloured days of winter/spring resembling a grumbling old man, when one can walk without layering in a crowd of materials, I walk.
Recent Comments