A Walk Does Not Need a Point

I had nothing to write about today.

This was unusual. I normally have a dependable supply of observations concerning humans, health, food preparation, neighborhood dogs, and the exaggerated confidence of squirrels. But nothing came to mind, and the more I tried to find a topic, the less interesting everything seemed.

Dr. Retzler did not appear worried about my lack of material. She put on her walking shoes, clipped the leash to my collar, and took me outside.

I assumed the walk would provide a subject.

There was a stick near the sidewalk. It was not an exceptional stick, but it had respectable proportions and appeared structurally sound. I considered whether it might represent adaptability, persistence, or the importance of preserving grip strength with age.

Then I picked it up, because it was a stick.

We continued down the street. The air changed near the trees. A delivery truck stopped at the corner. A dog had passed through recently and left a considerable amount of information, none of which required laboratory confirmation. Somewhere behind a fence, a very small dog began issuing statements about neighborhood security.

I listened and looked around. I noticed where Dr. Retzler was walking, how the leash moved between us, and which sounds belonged nearby and which were farther away. None of this felt like a mindfulness exercise. It was simply what was happening.

Dogs are often described as living in the present, although humans tend to say this as though we have completed special training. Mostly, we pay attention because the world is active and interesting. A smell changes. A bird moves. Someone opens a garage door. A leaf that was not moving begins to move. It is difficult to become overly philosophical when the environment keeps updating itself.

Humans appear to have the opposite problem. Their surroundings may change, but their attention remains attached to something that already happened or something that has not happened yet.

Daniel is particularly skilled at being on a walk while mentally somewhere else. He can be beside me while also thinking about the clinic, the website, an article, a bill, a patient question, three unfinished projects, and something somebody said to him in 1997. His feet remain on the sidewalk, but the rest of him is attending several meetings.

I do not mean this as criticism. His mind works hard because he cares. It solves problems, builds things, watches for what might go wrong, and tries to make life easier for other people. There is generosity in that kind of attention.

There is also exhaustion.

Humans have become very practiced at assigning a purpose to quiet moments. A walk should lower stress, improve cardiovascular health, generate creativity, deepen a relationship, support metabolism, increase step count, or provide something worth saying afterward. Even rest is often discussed as a strategy for becoming more productive later.

That seems like an unreasonable amount of work for a sidewalk.

A walk may do many useful things, but usefulness does not have to be the reason for taking it. The person beside you may not need a conversation. The silence may not need to become insight. The world may not need to be interpreted before it can be enjoyed.

Being present does not require an empty mind, which is fortunate because Daniel would find that suspicious. It means noticing when the mind has wandered away and allowing some attention to return. The thought does not need to be fought. It simply does not need to be followed every time it passes.

There will still be emails afterward. The unresolved problem will remain unresolved. The old conversation will continue to have happened. For a few minutes, however, there are also trees, weather, movement, and the living creature walking beside you.

By the time Dr. Retzler and I returned home, I still did not have a major subject. Nothing dramatic had happened. I had inspected several trees, monitored the neighborhood, carried the stick farther than necessary, and spent time beside someone I love.

It had been a very good walk.

Perhaps humans sometimes overlook ordinary moments because they are waiting for them to become important. But importance is not always announced. Sometimes it looks like paying attention while someone walks beside you. Sometimes it sounds like leaves moving overhead. Sometimes it is a familiar street that you actually noticed this time.

And sometimes a stick is simply a stick, which does not make it any less worth carrying home.

Editorial Transparency: Aria is a young Shepherd-Doodle and an occasional HormoneSynergy editorial contributor. Her observations are translated into human language with assistance from Daniel, whose body is usually present on walks even when his mind has briefly returned to the office.

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