Walking

Still round the corner there may wait

Walking. One foot in front of the other. The steady rhythm of movement, the whisper of wind against your cheek, the feel of ground beneath your feet. It’s a simple thing, really—almost so simple that we overlook its significance. The last of the four insights from foster leave I promised a few weeks ago, walking became more than just a way to get from one place to another. It became a form of meditation, a way of processing, a journey of its own kind.

J.R.R. Tolkien, one of my literary heroes, walked a great deal and often with friends. Walking was a shared activity that allowed them to engage in deep conversation. They would discuss their literary projects, critique each other's work, and explore philosophical and theological questions. These walks were not merely leisurely; they were an extension of their intellectual partnership. I followed in kind during much of my academic years, coursing the streets of Spokane and Boston with my friends, classmates, and professors.

Walking has a quiet power for fostering insight—an activity that, in its simplicity, invites the mind to roam as freely as the feet. When walking, especially without urgency or destination, thoughts can wander, unburdened by the pressure to resolve themselves too quickly. The gentle cadence of one foot following the other seems to unlock a different kind of thinking, one that is exploratory rather than forced. As the body moves rhythmically, ideas seem to fall into place organically; problems that felt tangled begin to unravel, and new connections emerge. It’s a reminder that insight often comes not when we chase it, but when we allow it the space to find us. Walking offers that space—a physical and mental openness that is rare in the bustle of everyday tasks. My foster child, “The Tiny Manno” and Nutmeg, my chocolate lab, are those sorts of intellectual partners.

Walking with my foster child reminded me of lessons I’d learned over the past decade and a half, ambling with toddlers who stayed and toddlers who didn’t. There’s something magical (and delightfully practical) about the way children walk—how each step is an exploration, how each turn reveals a new discovery. A puddle becomes an ocean. A fallen leaf, a treasure. At this age they aren’t even really asking many questions, they’re just exulting in the pure delight of being. As we walked, I began to notice the small things—things I hadn’t stopped to see in a long time. The tiny flowers pushing up between cracks in the sidewalk. The way a bird tilted its head as if listening to a secret melody. The feel of sunlight warming my back, inch by inch.

J.R.R. Tolkien also wrote, “It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door… you step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.” That’s the beauty and the risk of walking, of moving forward without a clear map or end goal. You open yourself to the unknown, and there is a gentle kind of danger in that. But there’s also a gift: the gift of discovery, of unexpected moments of beauty. With each walk, I learned that it wasn’t about keeping my feet but about letting them carry me where they wanted to go. There was freedom in the uncertainty, a release from the need to control every aspect of my journey.

Walking is an invitation to linger, to let the world reveal itself at a gentle pace, step by step, where there is no rush, only the unfolding of each moment. It’s a rhythm that invites reflection and calm—a process of opening up rather than pushing forward. In contrast, the ultramarathoning and mountain endurance running that I do are all about purposeful momentum and embracing the raw challenge of testing limits. There’s no lingering, no slowing down for the view—only the demand of the next mile, the next ascent, the next burst of energy as muscles burn and lungs strain. Where walking is a dialogue with simplicity, running is a negotiation with intensity. Yet, in both, there is a profound connection to movement: one finds freedom in slowness and presence, while the other finds it in the sheer exhilaration of pursuing what lies beyond your limits. Both offer their own kind of clarity—one through quiet observation and the other through the relentless drive toward something greater.

In the simplest terms, walking is about letting go (perhaps a theme of these posts). Letting go of the need to know the answers. Letting go of the urge to plan every next step. It’s about trusting that if you keep moving, the path will reveal itself. Step by step. Slowly. There’s a patience to it, a willingness to be where you are, fully, without needing to rush ahead. It reminds me of Wilde’s insight—that to live fully means not just to move through life but to feel every moment, to breathe in every breath, to let each step be enough in itself.

And so, this is what walking taught me. That life doesn’t need to be rushed. That each step—each small, seemingly unimportant step—has meaning. That the journey is made in those quiet moments of just being. Moving forward, yes, but without hurry, without striving for the destination. Just moving. Just being. One step at a time.