QuickTake:
After a good walk, I feel changed: more buoyant and balanced. Walking is part of a process, an artform that creates beauty and healing through motion and reflection.
Fog poured into valleys and covered the tops of foothills as we walked along the Walterville Canal recently. The sun was a tarnished nickel behind the clouds, and, in the distance, cattle and sheep were grazing in vast green pastures stretching to the northern bank of the McKenzie River.
We saw ducks — mostly mallards, mergansers and wood ducks — but there was one that I couldn’t identify. It had a white head plopped on top of a dark body, and it was sitting alone on a log next to the far bank of the canal. We stared suspiciously at each other for a moment, sizing each other up, each of us uncertain of what we were looking at.
It’s how I feel sometimes when I read the news. There are days when I barely recognize our country, as masked federal agents take to the streets, demonstrators are killed and human rights are trampled in favor of political domination, greed and racism.
I recently read a meme that suggested that when the world is spinning out of control, one might try unplugging life, then plugging it back in. Reboot. Restart.
Walking is my way of unplugging myself, getting unstuck step by step.
And at age 73, I find myself still learning how to do it right, syncing my breath with the movement of my arms and legs. I don’t try to solve problems or work through issues. I just walk and breathe. It’s like stepping through a door and entering a quiet realm. I need only to pay attention.
Two eagles were perched atop bare branches of a towering tree overlooking the valley as we continued our walk. I am humbled by their steely gaze, which reminds me of Mr. Harris, my seventh-grade science teacher.
My wife, Julia, dog, Yogi, and I typically choose between one of three paths for our daily walks. The Walterville Canal offers the most birds and beasts as well as expansive views. The Leaburg Canal, however, is Yogi’s favorite, because of Mr. Kenny, who brings her treats even though he has no dogs. Her tail whips back and forth like mad windshield wipers the moment she sees him. For Christmas, he gave her an entire package.
On the opposite side of the Leaburg Canal is my favorite path. It is more secluded and winds through trees and over gentle hills. It’s where we see “Ghost Lady” on occasion. She can be walking her dog ahead of us or behind us, but either way she seems to disappear into the forest when we’re not looking.
Beyond “Eagle Tree” is a massive nest the size of a truck tire built on a platform atop a utility pole. Come spring, we will stop to hear baby ospreys as they peek over the edge. They must be wondering how the hell they are ever getting down from such a great height.
A variety of goats and cattle share a pasture with two guardian dogs near the end of the path, where we turn around and backtrack. It’s about 3½ miles in all. Before moving to the McKenzie River, traveling 3½ miles required a car. Walking was what I did when there were no other options, as I considered it boring, slow and, all too often, uphill.
It turns out, however, that walking is like duct tape or hot sauce — it has many uses. Not only does it help maintain fitness, hope and resilience, it also helps lessen the burden of personal regrets, misfortunes and injustices that accrue over a lifetime without resolution.
I call myself a “half-assed Buddhist” because although I was brought up in the faith, I rarely attend temple. When I do, however, I am lifted by the familiar swell of incense, and I become absorbed by the tone and cadence of chanting. I feel a part of something boundless, like the flow of river and time. I feel changed.
And that is how I feel after a good walk — changed, more buoyant and balanced. Walking is part of a process, an artform that creates beauty and healing through motion and reflection, not unlike dancing, yoga or tai chi.
There is a Japanese word, “shinrinyoku,” which means forest bath, a method of spiritual cleansing. Another word, “komorebi,” translates to light filtering through trees. Walking, for me, is an excursion through internal and external landscapes.
Julia and I typically talk of simple things over the sounds of our footsteps, but there are long periods when we say nothing, allowing our minds to wander as Yogi crisscrosses the path ahead of us following her nose, periodically turning to us for affirmation and treats.
Walks do not change the world, but they remind me that seasons pass. As winter becomes spring, the nickel sun will turn brilliant, clouds will disappear and baby ospreys will sing. As I think about them now, I realize that they aren’t looking down at us wondering how they will get down.
They are looking up at the sky, wondering how far and high they might soar, the way it should feel to be a citizen of the world.
