When I read Ultra-Processed People, (which every American should read, by the way) I was dismayed to find out that exercise doesn’t automatically burn up the calories I consume. For example, when I eat a Snickers bar then compute how long I need to walk to burn those calories, my walk will benefit me, but not by erasing those yummy junk calories. The math doesn’t math that way, which is deeply disappointing to me and also proves that numbers hate me.
Ultra-Processed People shook me for other reasons too, which I won’t go into here except to say that after you read it, you will often ask yourself as you eat, “Was this food made with love to nourish me or made by a company that wants to make money off me?”
Back to NOT walking off the calories from a Snickers bar: the author says walking has many benefits even if it doesn’t consume the calories I wish it would. Even though I’m mad at numbers, I absolutely agree that walking benefits me in many ways.
When I think back to very dark seasons of distress, I remember that the times I was most calm and at peace were when I walked down the road to the sea or when I went swimming in a cove. Back then, I thought it was the sea that calmed me. But now, connecting the dots in retrospect, I know it was the physical movement of walking or swimming that ultimately regulated me, and my body knew what it needed more than I did. This is the road with the sea at my back:
Years later, when I was new to northwestern Pennsylvania, I was telling a friend how hard it is to survive the long dark winter. (In dramatic moments, I know we have nine months of winter in the year.) She suggested I take 15-20 minutes to walk right after lunch when the sun is at its highest. It was the advice I needed, and it has served me enormously. Most days, I’d invite my co-worker friend across the hall to go with me. Sometimes, when I knew she was having a stressful day, I used stronger language and insisted she walk with me. We’d walk in all weather except rain.
When we were scrambling to begin working from home during COVID, the first thing I put in my schedule was two walks a day: one with my co-worker and one alone. Two daily walks was the best decision I made in that season.
For years, lower back pain bothered me. Sometimes it was better, then worse. One chiropractor said firmly, “You could walk this off.” I was glad to know, and walking regularly is probably why my back doesn’t give me trouble now.
In another difficult, overwhelming season, my doctor (and I) didn’t want to put me on anti-depressants, but she suggested daily walks. I told her I already walk, and she cheered. “And look up as you walk—45 degrees slanted up toward the sky. There’s a reason the good book says to lift your eyes to the hills!” and she swept her arm up from the horizon. I try to remember her advice when I walk. Looking up exposes my eyes to more light and Vitamin D. But I suspect Psalm 121 intended even more than those physical benefits.
I’m the pal who drags her people out for a walk after a meal even in the middle of winter. You don’t feel like going, it’s true, but after approximately five steps, you already feel better. You take longer, deeper breaths, you notice birdsong and the sky even if it’s gray, and when you get back you never wish you’d have stayed inside. Never. For real.
Walking rests my brain. Some of my best ideas come on a walk. It’s probably something about the cross-pattern or rhythmic movement or not needing to concentrate or increased oxygen or change of scenery.
My current walking place is nothing like where I walked in Ireland, and this is sad. But it’s green and has wildflowers in every season and wild apples and white aspens. Sometimes I do a color walk, which gives me new eyes to see the ordinary.
Silence is a practice I stack with walking. In the morning, if I’ve been listening to podcast or audio book as I fix my bed and pack my bag, I turn off the audio at my door. I step out the door in silence, walk through the morning in silence, walk the scenic route to my office in silence, stop to see the sun and sky and trees in silence. In the evening, I might listen to or send voice messages as I walk, but not more. I need silence to give a chance for some of the open tabs in my brain to close. I need silence for thinking space and for rest. Deep work calls for deep rest, Aundi Colber says, and silence is restful. If it’s not, it’s probably time to sit with it and ask it why.
Because I benefit from the social, emotional, physical, and spiritual results of daily walks, I think everyone else should walk too. If it’s too warm to walk at noon, walk at golden hour when the sun is less direct. Or walk in starlight, which is its own magic and calm and wonder. And if you can’t walk, do stretches. If you can’t stretch, do deep breathing. Or sing. The breathing, rhythm, and focus on something outside yourself will benefit you in surprising ways.
If it doesn’t, come talk to me! You know we’ll go on a walk to figure it out.
Once at the edge of a crowded Dublin sidewalk, I was waiting for the crosswalk. Just as the pedestrian light turned red, I started to step off the curb, intending to cross quickly before the traffic started. A tall man beside me put out his arm to stop me. His elbow grazed my shoulder. “The man who made time made plenty of it,” he said. I laughed, chastened with his Irish humor and forthright advice.
Tis a Gift to Receive 