My chaps of many years routinely make fun of me for having an abundance of old-man tendencies. Unfortunately, the proper and odd phraseology that seems to dominate my speech in recent moons does not help me escape these allegations. I find myself saying:  “I need to go on a walk,” or “I’m going on a walk,” or if some British, vest-wearing, china-collecting, hound dog-owning spirit posses me “excuse me, I must depart on my evening stroll now.” Walks have taken over my life. 

I wake up in the morning, and the first thought on my mind is when I can go for a walk. In class, I determined how well-suited the weather is for the walk and which neighborhood I should stroll through today. I’m not even sure if I should call my walk a walk because these are certainly not silly little enjoyable meandering through some pleasant little field. 

These walks are hyper-fixation obligations I must fulfill in very particular ways.  Here are some of the completely inflexible requirements: first, I am absolutely not allowed to think or do any schoolwork on these walks; they must last a minimum of one hour; the more cemeteries, the better; the more neighborhoods, the better. Fence hopping is not only tolerated but encouraged, and never ever ever have a plan of where to walk. Additionally, never ever ever consider using a map of any kind, no matter how lost you get. These rigid self-imposed rules have frequently led me to become lost beyond repair, alone at night, far later than is safe for me to be so, but I have also encountered many cats during these bouts of misdirection, so does it really matter if some random man yells at me? (The answer is decisively no).

Why these walks are so important is something I have been struggling to properly articulate. People frequently assume that these walks are performed for the sake of mental sanity, and while walking is definitely a healthy habit, I almost never exit these walks feeling collected, calm, or clear-headed. I suppose some aspect of it is grounding; there is something very appealing about methodically and aggressively (I am an absurdly fast walker) marching through neighborhoods that have no connection to you and observing random, clearly intentional household projects. Or even better, there is something completely otherworldly about walking through graveyards and visiting graves of people that everyone alive has entirely forgotten of, and see graves that are buried in moss, with eroded stones, and water markings. Graves that were erected with the intention of remembrance and despite all the marble, granite, or in some especially wealthy cases, copper, have been forgotten anyway. 

The effect of these marches typically falls into one of two categories. Sometimes, with each step, I become more firmly rooted in the world around me. My thoughts slowly lower from soaring in the realm of the metaphysical and become rooted in the crust of the earth beneath my feet. Other times, the exact opposite effect takes place. I am so uncomfortable, rooted in my physicality, and through the repeated placing down of my foot, lifting it back up, and placing it down again, I am able to be lifted into the roaming world of above. Thus, I suppose the appeal of the walk is to allow myself the space and time to become lost in thought or sensation, depending on what my body and intellect deem necessary. There is not much else I can say on this topic, without saying far too much, so instead, I will place down my pen (close my laptop, which I have been haunching over for the past four hours) and depart on yet another walk.

October 2024