In Praise of Walking

Becca Stadtlander

In Praise of Walking

Early one morning, any morning, we can set out, with the least

possible baggage, and discover the world.

It is quite possible to refuse all the coercion, violence, property,

triviality, to simply walk away.

That something exists outside ourselves and our preoccupations,

so near, so readily available, is our greatest blessing.

Walking is the human way of getting about.

Always, everywhere, people have walked, veining the earth with

paths, visible and invisible, symmetrical and meandering.

There are walks in which we tread in the footsteps of others,

walks on which we strike out entirely for ourselves.

A journey implies a destination, so many miles to be consumed,

while a walk is its own measure, complete at every point along

the way.

There are things we will never see, unless we walk to them.

Walking is a mobile form of waiting.

What I take with me, what I leave behind, are of less importance

than what I discover along the way.

To be completely lost is a good thing on a walk.

The most distant places seem most accessible once one is on

the road.

Convictions, directions, opinions, are of less importance than

sensible shoes.

In the course of a walk, we usually find out something about our

companion, and this is true even when we travel alone.

When I spend a day talking I feel exhausted, when I spend it

walking I am pleasantly tired.

The pace of the walk will determine the number and variety of

things to be encountered, from the broad outlines of a mountain

range to a tit’s nest among the lichen, and the quality of attention

that will be brought to bear upon them.

A rock outcrop, a hedge, a fallen tree, anything that turns us out

of our way, is an excellent thing on a walk.

Wrong turnings, doubling back, pauses and digressions, all contribute

to the dislocation of a persistent self-interest.

Everything we meet is equally important or unimportant.

The most lonely places are the most lovely.

Walking is egalitarian and democratic; we do not become experts

at walking and one side of the road is as good as another.

Walking is not so much romantic as reasonable.

The line of a walk is articulate in itself, a kind of statement.

Pools, walls, solitary trees, are natural halting places.

We lose the flavour of walking if it becomes too rare or too

extraordinary, if it turns into an expedition; rather it should be

quite ordinary, unexceptional, just what we do.

Daily walking, in all weathers, in every season, becomes a sort of

ground or continuum upon which the least emphatic occurrences

are registered clearly.

A stick of ash or blackthorn, through long use, will adjust itself

to the palm.

Of the many ways through a landscape, we can choose, on each

occasion, only one, and the project of a walk will be to remain

responsive, adequate, to the consequences of the choice we have

made, to confirm the chosen way rather than refuse the others.

One continues on a long walk not through effort of will but through

fidelity.

Storm clouds, rain, hail, when we have survived these we seem

to have taken on some of the solidity of rocks and trees.

A day, from dawn to dusk, is the natural span of a walk.

A dull walk is not without value.

To walk for hours on a clear night is the largest experience

we can have.

For the right understanding of a landscape, information

must come to the intelligence from all the senses.

Looking, singing, resting, breathing are all complementary

to walking.

Climbing uphill, the horizon grows wider, descending, the hills

gather round.

We can take a walk which is a sampling of different airs: the

invigorating air of the heights; the filtered air of a pine forest;

the rich air over ploughed earth.

We can walk between two places, and in so doing establish a link

between them, bring them into a warmth of contact, like

introducing two friends.

There are walks on which I lose myself, walks which return me to

myself again.

Is there anything better that to be out, walking, in the

clear air?

Thomas A. Clark

“That something exists outside ourselves and our preoccupations, so near, so readily available, is our greatest blessing.” Amen to that. Getting outside ourselves is a basic human need. I could not agree more about walking. That action, that movement, it makes things happen in our minds, we get places we can’t get to any other way, as the poem says, but I mean internally as well. That line, “There are walks on which I lose myself, walks which return me to myself again.” rings true on so many levels. I’m developing  a  fondness for these catalogue type poems, these lists of thoughts. It’s a way to explore a subject from every angle, like a jewel, examining how the light hits each facet. And if you ask me, poetry is complementary to walking too.