“It may be that when we no longer know what to do, we have come to our real work, and when we no longer know which way to go, we have begun our real journey.” ~Wendell Berry
There are moments in life that stop us in our tracks, not with a sudden shock, but with a profound stillness that demands our attention. For me, such a moment arrived one evening while watching a television scene unfold: a father, consumed by an unchangeable plight befalling his daughter, sought solace and a form of prayer in the vast wilderness. This wasn’t a foreign concept; it resonated deep within my bones, a practice I’d unknowingly embraced throughout my life, albeit without a name.
The Genesis of a Personal Ritual
My first conscious foray into this unique form of emotional navigation occurred in my twenties. I had just met the woman who would become my wife, and who remains so to this day. She lived a mere seven or eight miles away, an easy drive. Yet, on that particular day, an inexplicable urge to travel on foot took hold. I embarked on a trek up University Drive, past the familiar strip malls and traffic lights, eventually finding myself on the highway’s shoulder. Arriving at her door, my legs were weary, my shirt soaked, but my spirit soared. I had endured, I had pushed myself, and in that effort, I felt I had honored the burgeoning tenderness I felt for her. It was then I began to understand: true affection often requires a physical journey, a movement through the body, before it can fully reach another soul.
Journeys of Connection and Tribute
This ritual extended to other cherished relationships. My parents, living just five miles away, have been the destination of countless walks. Each step, past the childhood corners and familiar yards, subtly shifts my state of being. By the time I arrive, I am fully present, deeply appreciative of the precious gift of their company. Similarly, my son, who has worn the number five in sports since he was a toddler, inspired another significant journey. Learning that Brooks Robinson, a Hall of Fame third baseman admired for his talent and kindness, also wore that number, I walked miles to a baseball card store and back. It felt right to undertake a physical quest to share this piece of inspiration with my son, to show him the legacy behind his chosen number.
Finding Solace in Motion
Beyond acts of love and tribute, these long walks became my sanctuary for processing personal burdens. Once, overwhelmed by work stress, I hiked fourteen miles to the beach. No announcements, no explanations—just a relentless forward motion until the street dissolved into sand, the ocean stretched before me, and the heavy tension lifted from my shoulders. These journeys, I realized, were a profound way of externalizing internal struggles, a full-bodied declaration that a challenge, a person, or a moment mattered enough to be honored through physical exertion.
The Ultimate Trek: Love in Crisis
A few years ago, my daughter faced a profoundly difficult period. My wife and I exhausted every avenue of support, yet I was left with that agonizing, helpless feeling every parent knows—the desperate wish to trade places. When all other efforts felt futile, and I came up empty, I laced up my sneakers and headed west. I walked past bus stops and plazas, past the thinning cityscapes and vacant lots, beyond where the sidewalks ended and the land grew wilder. Despite the uncharacteristic South Florida cold, in the low forties, I pressed on. I walked until the last gas station vanished behind me, leaving only open space ahead. I stopped at the fence marking the beginning of the Everglades, where sawgrass met the horizon and the sky seemed endless. In that vast, indifferent wilderness, my aching feet and labored lungs bore witness to my exhaustion. Standing there, I allowed myself to want her to be okay, in the most raw, undefended way imaginable. I stood for a long time, then turned homeward.
Upon my return, the temperature had plummeted further. I sought the backyard pool, the icy water a shock against my skin. I stayed, immersed, thinking only of her. It was a small, perhaps foolish, act, yet it felt like the truest expression of love I could offer. I cannot claim that the road or the cold water directly alleviated her struggles, though she is doing better now. But I believe I finally understand the essence of these lifelong journeys. When love runs deep, it accumulates within, demanding an outlet, a movement. While some confide in friends, others write, and many simply hold on, I pour myself out in the direction of those I love until I am spent. I’ve learned that we cannot always alter the circumstances for our loved ones, no matter how fiercely we wish to. Accepting this often requires time and distance. For me, walking is the crucible in which I process the unresolvable, allowing me to return more fully present and grounded for those who matter most.
For more details, visit our website.
Source: Link
Leave a comment