one step at a time

I forgot how much I like walking. Lately it’s been the determination to run. Run because I wrote a character that ultimately runs the Boston Marathon. Sometimes I tempt myself with the idea of maybe… when I turn forty. Or after I run a half marathon. Yeah, maybe. It’s a lot work. It’s a good thing to do. A good way to focus one’s head. But my head isn’t there right now.

My head is full of a fury. A maelstrom of determination. It needs some calm. It needs a steadier rhythm. Running empties my head as I focus toward the next tree or the traffic light. I don’t really think much when I run. Walking, however, forces me to breathe. It makes me move. It connects me to the rhythm of my heartbeat. It lets me observe the gorgeous houses I pass by in West Newton. It calms me.

When I lived in London, I walked everywhere. I had to. I didn’t have a car. But I did have the tube. I was trying to save money. But there were often nights the air was so perfect when I left Soho that I opted not to cram into the Piccadilly Line but to walk back to South Kensington. I discovered the mysticism of Green Park just as dark is descending. I felt like a kid under the snow machine at Harvey Nichols. I realized Brompton Road would not lead me to Old Brompton Road in So. Ken, but into Chelsea. I was able to understand the debate of which way was best to navigate through London so Hugh Grant could confess to Julia Roberts how he felt at the end of Notting Hill. I loved walking that city. I loved it.

When I lived there – yes it was EIGHT years ago – I was probably the most comfortable I’ve ever been with myself. I know the city had a lot to do with it. I know the 3000 mile distance from some people made our relationships better and less strained and much less stressful. I had a relative hiatus from bills and precious few obligations. But I’m thinking the fact I walked and walked and walked put my head right. I was stressed about money. I was stressed about what I was going to do when I got home. I was stressed about the fact a couple terrorists slammed planes into the Twin Towers while I was in a foreign country. But in spite of all that stress, I was grounded and… happy.

Obviously I would give anything to go back to London. Just trying to think of the geography of my walks as I write this makes my heart yearn. But I don’t think that would be the end of my current worries. I went back there over a year ago and didn’t find that relative calm. It was a rush to do too much in the space of too few days. It was still glorious… but it wasn’t me walking alone.

The other night I decided to walk instead of run. Because I just needed to take away the excuse to not do anything when I didn’t feel like running. So I walked at a brisk pace and found the first sentence for my query. Not bad. Last night I increased my loop by another mile, revisiting part of my loop from my Newtonville days. I saw the cotton candy sunset as I came back down Com. Ave. towards my street. I breathed. I moved. Then when I got home I had a clear mind.

There is still nothing like a runner’s high. But it is a transient ecstasy. Walking is like a metronome for my mind. It sets the pace and calms the noise to more appropriate and melodic sounds. It channels the tornado of my brain into a windmill.