These Boots are Made for Walking

We recently had the privilege of spending a week in Maine, and yes, as predicted, Madelyn and I played in the sand with our shovels and our bling-encrusted buckets.  However, I discovered that at age 2, she was most interested in moving sand from one place to another, not in building a sandcastle.  Maybe next year. 

We walked everywhere in that seaside town.  We walked to the beach, loaded down with beach chairs, umbrellas, towels and sunscreen, and we walked home from the beach, pulling the wagon up the hill.  We walked to the Seaside Pavilion for an encore performance of the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.  We walked to the corner store for milk, and we walked to the Pier in the evening, sampling the fries, the pizza, and a mouth-watering cheesesteak – thanks, Hoss and Mary.

By the time I got home, I was humming along with Nancy Sinatra, “These Boots are Made for Walking,” and anticipated a positive result when I stepped on the scale.  To my disappointment, the pizza and fries won out over the walking.  Well, it was vacation . . . 

So, fresh from the Maine shore, where everyone strolls around in bathing suits, I made the trek to the Kroc Center spraypark with Madelyn in her wagon, but I did feel rather self-conscious walking down East Liberty Street dressed for the beach.  However, once we arrived and donned our sun block, we fit right in among the kids and adults frolicking in the water.

I’ve walked to church, to the seminary, and to the store for a gallon of milk.  I’ve walked to mail a letter, to visit a friend, and to get an ice cream cone with the lovely Madelyn Simone.  I haven’t walked to the library yet, afraid that I’ll pick out too many books for the journey home, but it’s on my list – I’ll just have to remember to take a heavy-duty bag with me.

It’s strange to write about walking as an accomplishment, because as a child, that’s how we lived.  Often my dad worked out of town all week, arriving home on Friday evening, so with only one car, we were without transportation during the week.  But I don’t remember that being a problem.  If I wanted to go somewhere, I’d either walk or ride my bike.  Our car’s main function was to take my dad to work, not to serve as a taxi for the kids. 

 Now I don’t anticipate that I’ll be hiking the length of the Appalachian Trail anytime soon, but I think I could get used to this.  Walking gives me a chance to look at the houses of my neighbors, enjoying the landscaping and noting a home or two that could use some sprucing up.  I can pray as I walk, for the neighbors, for the kids who will soon be walking to school on this sidewalk, and for the postal carrier and meter reader who daily walk through my neighborhood.  I can touch the purple ribbons that still grace some of the trees on my street and remember.

One quiet evening last week, I slipped out of the house and walked over to the Kroc Center to visit the labyrinth.  This path, designed with an ancient pattern for walking, praying and remembering, is nestled in the far corner of the property, at the top of the hill under an ancient maple.  Its twists and turns force a slower pace, a rhythm just right for contemplation.  While a suggested pattern is to release, to receive (in the center) and to return, there’s no right or wrong way to walk the labyrinth.  The labyrinth welcomes our sorrow and our joy, our questions and our resolve.  I like that.

Whether at the labyrinth or on the streets of the neighborhood, Elizabeth von Armin understands: “Walking is the perfect way of moving if you want to see into the life of things. It is the one way of freedom. If you go to a place on anything but your own feet you are taken there too fast, and miss a thousand delicate joys that were waiting for you by the wayside.”  A walk, anyone?