Up On My Soapbox

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Walking Detail

by Joanne Brokaw

I went for a walk today. Not generally a noteworthy event, I know. But for me? On the list of things I like to do, exercise ranks just below changing the litter box and just above dusting.

But walking has been on my mind lately. I recently read a book by travel writer Bill Bryson, in which he chastises Americans for driving half a mile to go to the store. Apparently in England, people walk miles just to buy milk. And these people actually like to walk, not just for the exercise but because they get something out of it mentally or spiritually.

Walking to the store when you can drive seems a bit ridiculous to me. I don’t have time to think, let alone go for a walk. And surely all that physical exertion has to be bad for your heart.

But this morning, as my fingers hurt from typing, my back hurt from sitting, and my brain hurt from thinking, I looked out the window and saw the sun shining and heard the birds calling. On a whim, I decided to walk to the store to get a newspaper. (Hey, if a whole nation can do it, how dangerous can it be?) I was on a tight writing deadline, but I figured I could get the walk over with quickly and get right back to work.

I made a beeline for the grocery store, grabbed a newspaper, and was headed home with my mission accomplished when I noticed something I’d missed before: There isn’t a sidewalk all the way to the grocery store. On my way, I had either crossed the street or walked in the busy road without really making a conscious decision to do either.

Puzzled, I crossed the street by my favorite house. When had they put in this new fence, added the shrubbery, and painted the shutters? Funny. I missed all of that work being done, even though I drive by several times a day.

I stopped at the corner where my daughter had been in a minor car accident months before. As I stood there, a funeral motorcade passed, and I realized how fortunate I was that my biggest concern was whether or not I’d meet a column deadline.

As I turned onto my street, I spied a small feather lying in the grass and picked it up. Fascinating, how one little grey feather is mixed with some light brown and red ones, and before you know it, a chickadee is clothed in splendor and ready for flight. If God takes care of the birds with such an eye for detail, I suppose He’s got my problems under control.

I headed home, twirling the feather in one hand and swinging my newspaper in the other, realizing that I had actually enjoyed my walk. Clearly my heart was not in danger of exploding and now my mind was safe as well.

I felt so good, I went home and almost dusted the furniture.

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