May 2021: The Art of Taking a Walk
Dear lovely readers,
In every place I’ve lived, I’ve tried to walk in a way that counts.
It’s my most consistent form of meditation. When I’m walking, there is nothing else I have to do. All I have to remember is to put one foot in front of the other. I can let my mind wander. Usually, I try to focus on the trees and the light and the stones under my sneakers. It’s a way to remind myself that small beauties exist everywhere, if I just pay attention.
In Palo Alto, I quietly turned down offers from my peers to drive me home. My brain felt like television static and I knew that walking was the only remedy. I’d breathe in the warm air, adjusting the straps on my backpack, and shuffle through the campus archways. In the afternoon, the sandstone buildings blended in with the heat, deep yellow like sunbursts. I’d trace the changing landscape with my eyes, the muted red tiles of the roofs, the parched grass that grew lush and bright green after two months of winter rain, the geometric sculptures and fountains, the orange blossoms of a silk oak tree. At night, Memorial Church glowed, lights illuminating its gold-leaf façade.
In high school, I slipped down the hill behind the main building, watching the blueness of the bay grow closer and closer. I’d walk down a narrow trail, dusty walls of dirt hugging a sparsely-used train track. Trees created a thin canopy above my head. If I walked long enough, I’d pass half-consumed beer cans hidden in the dirt, nestled like bizarre treasure map clues alongside the shrubs and the ivy and the seashells.
In Florida, I try to walk every day. It gets hotter and hotter each afternoon and, sometimes, I pretend that if I walk long enough I’ll melt, completely, like sherbet. I’ve watched flowers bloom and wilt. Surinam cherries, pumpkin-shaped with tiny stems, have sprouted on the bushes. As kids, my sister and I would walk throughout the neighborhood, collecting the berries that had turned a deep purple or red. Now, I watch them grow, changing from lime green to orange to cherry. I know which cat lives on which street, the stray ones that sleep boldly by car tires and front doors, the collared cats that eat grass and dash across the street at the slightest noise. A lone duck bathes itself in a small puddle, amiably ignoring a dog that stands nearby, yanking on its leash and barking. When the wind blows, brown leaves circle the air, falling like tiny fairies or gold coins or muddy rain.
This is what you’ll miss, I remind myself. This is what you’ll miss.
I check up on Frederick, a tiny pink Octopus toy nestled in the wild grass of someone’s front lawn. When I’m not too tired, I’ll take a second walk right as the sun is setting. The sky is layered with soft colors, pearl gray and the hushed breath of light pink. A coating of white, white like the skin of milk, reaches the uppermost clouds. On these walks, I picture breaking apart the houses with my fingers, reaching for the blush pink of a cloudy sunset, rain thundering in the distance.
This is what you’ll miss.
The humidity of a four o’clock afternoon. The brush of whitecaps rippling a silver lake. Orange skies and cinnamon tea. Whiny crickets and frogs. Hair rising like feathers in the wind.
When I lived in DC, I walked by the Capitol every morning. Wide stone pathways encircled the state building, pink flowers blooming on nearby trees, and tourists frequently stopped to take selfies, beaming with sunglasses perched on their noses. One Saturday, my friend and I lazily strolled through the crowd, talking and pointing at our favorite dogs. We nestled on the edge of the Capitol Reflecting Pool, our sneakers hanging over the threshold, and wished we’d brought crackers for the mallards. I listened to Frank Ocean so much that summer that any lyric from Blonde immediately reminds me of an art deco bench right by the border of the Capitol, the last marker on my walk signaling the end of federal grounds.
In São Paulo, my mother guided me through her favorite city routes. On the way back from the supermarket, drinking cold guava juice or snacking on pão de queijo, we’d stand in front of a nail salon or a repair shop. Rosana used to live here, she’d say. Her house was beautiful. White walls. Purple flowers. She’d look at what used to exist in the spaces of her past. Like me, she spent years and years of her life walking. We rode the metro and exited the Blue Line at São Bento. Walking through the streets of downtown, we’d pause in the entryway of the Mosteiro de São Bento, watching the blue and red brushstrokes of light from the stained-glass windows. Some days, we’d get off at Consolação station or Trianon-Masp. We’d stroll down Paulista Avenue, disappearing into the bustle, and my mother would share stories of working her first full-time job and buying her favorite books and studying the exhibits at the São Paulo Museum of Modern Art. We’d return to my grandfather’s house, both tired and energized, our footprints full of new memories.
This is what you’ll miss.
On every walk, I remember that I actually do like this world. I think of the stories that exist, just outside, and how I am lucky enough to bear witness to all of them, if I just pay attention. It’s a deep well of joy, this kind of revelation.
There is so much out there. And there are stories everywhere.
And so I leave you with a poem by Mary Oliver called “Don’t Hesitate.”
“If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happened better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb.”
Love,
Meesh
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