Walk to Write

Take a walk says Virginia Woolf. Get out and ramble, in the quiet of the country or the bustling streets of the city. Let it feed you, rest you and satisfy you. Give yourself time to think, to muse, to rejuvenate, and to spread out the mind. So says Virginia Woolf.

I don't get to walk for the sake of walking anymore. When I tramp up Lonsdale, as many as eighteen blocks, or down six blocks, it's to perform a duty: go to the bank, grab some groceries, stop in at the post office, pick up fresh fruit and vegetables. Seldom do I do it anymore on my own, just for myself, for no other reason than to walk.

It is soul restoring bliss to walk the grounds of Westminster Abbey in Mission: to take in the last of the autumn colours and the stark branches against the grey sky. To feel the cold on my hands and wish I had a warm scarf. I have precious time to breathe and for rest to find room in my soul. The wet leaves squelch under my feet and the ground is so wet that, at times, I'm concerned I may step into sinking mud.

I read the plaques of the Benedictine monks who have passed on to glory. I absorb the serenity of Mary Lake and discover a bench secluded in the trees. I walk and I talk, to myself. There is freedom in giving voice to my thoughts - to speak freely with myself.

I recall as a teenager the times I would have the urge to walk. I would walk out the front door and feel the freedom and rest begin to flood my soul even as I crossed the grass of our front yard to the road. I would walk my suburb and feel the expanse of being alone, company to myself with time to breathe, process my thoughts and be rejuvenated. I never thought of it in these terms at the time. It was instinctive for me to deal with the teenage years by taking a walk.

I have rediscovered the joy of walking. I have learnt how necessary walking is to free up the mind, to let the images rush in and to write. So says Virginia Woolf.

I am a writer and an eager lone walker.