walking away from my problems

To say you enjoy “long walks” is often a cliché. What even qualifies a walk as long? Years ago, I walked for function as a car-less person. Beyond that, I probably said I liked long walks but would hardly do more than a few neighborhood loops. Then I met my husband. Straight from work in our business casual attire, we’d stroll around the city until long after sunset. Sometimes I was tired, but I wanted to appear as CHILL AS POSSIBLE and the long walks really grew on me.

I walk our dog every day, but truly long walks have become reserved for tourism. To maximize opportunities for activities and sight-seeing, it’s not uncommon to walk for hours and miles in a city that’s not my own. But I hadn’t reconsidered urban long-distance walking in a long time.

 I thought maybe I should do more traditional wilderness hiking. When I find myself needing a change of scenery or an opportunity to clear my mind, it would make sense to wander into the direct WOODS. But I’m no Cheryl Strayed. I’m clumsy, have poor sense of direction, and I don’t like trail mix. So the concept of walking where gas stations (with snacks and water and bathrooms) are positioned regularly held more appeal.

The first time I decided to take a full day off work to go for a walk, I was generally feeling overwhelmed. I’d also committed to auditioning for Survivor later in the day, and was hoping to find some time to rehearse a pitch for myself. I walked straight out my front door, towards the Mississippi River, over the Lake Street bridge and into the Hi-Lo Diner. They have pretty good food, but their milkshakes are the true winners in my eyes. After I secured a butterscotch one, I walked back towards my house, enjoying the extended opportunity to gawk at the massive houses that line the river. I used to think only movie stars I knew could afford those places. One thing about advancing through life is learning there are a million jobs you haven’t heard of and cannot conceptualize. And that is who’s making the big bucks.

I also walked through a lot of industrial space on my way there and back, which I love. It’s inconsistent with my genuine love of green space, animals, and bugs, but the sight of an empty parking lot thrills me. It makes me want to bike. I don’t want to bike distances; I want to bike in CIRCLES.

Full of milkshake, general gratitude, and some idea of what I’ll say in my Survivor audition, I arrived back at home. When I was in front of the camera at the audition, I lost my nerve (and I wrote about that). Regardless, the day is an absolute net positive.

immaculate.

The second time I intentionally set off with a full day to take a jaunt, I did so with more premeditation. I enlisted the help of my spouse to plan a route in the town where I grew up. My parents still live there, I see them regularly, and they worry about me. So when I mentioned my plan to walk across town to my dad, he expressed interest in joining me. This sounded cute to me. I envisioned us spending all these hours together, hitting conversation topics we’d never visited before, making memories we’d never forget and leaving the walk closer than ever.

I am lucky to have one of the good dads. He tells me every single time he sees me that he loves me and that he’s proud of me. And I know I can talk to him about anything. I didn’t realize this was exceptional until I became an adult and started meeting other adults. But when it comes down to it, the conversations my dad and I share usually rotate around a few consistent topics. As we walked from one end of my hometown to the other, we talked about the reality television we both keep up with, and he told me stories about when he was a younger and more daring version of himself than I know. My dad loves fun, but he really loves safety. When we stopped to have lunch at the local Dairy Queen, we discussed the existence of God over sundaes, and that goal of deep conversation was met.  

We covered around thirteen miles total. Around mile nine, my dad started to experience some discomfort in his shoes. He felt his socks were positioned improperly maybe, but every time we stopped, he was unable to right them. Around mile ten, we decided we were interested in walking at different paces. My dad’s priority became pushing through, and my top concern was still Having a Nice Time. He walked about a quarter mile ahead of me, still within my sight. I put in my earbuds and listened to Femininomenon by Chappell Roan, which seemingly offered me a new pair of legs. We crossed our self-imposed finish line.  

bless a sidewalk sale

It's mid-September, humid, and eighty-five degrees in St Paul when I, once again, find myself desperate for a break from my consistent schedule. By now, I’ve realized one of the most compelling reasons I schedule these long walks. When the pressure of maintaining a household, connection with those I love, and creative goals mount, I often take a mental health day from my day job and try to relax. But genuine rest can be hard to find. With a day away from full-time paid work, I might be compelled to clean up the house or tackle an organizational project with that time. To find rest or productivity, or a balance that pleases me, is almost impossible. What takes less effort and yields ideal results is putting one foot in front of the other. On a walk at any pace.

I exit at the end of Interstate 35 into Duluth, Minnesota, where I used to live and where it is pretty consistently ten degrees cooler than the Twin Cities. Sure enough, the seventy-degree air is favorable when I start walking from my car. I’ve parked around five miles from the city’s tourism core, Canal Park, and I walk parallel to Lake Superior. It’s beautiful even from blocks away, and I’m eager to get closer to it. One thing I’ve realized the longer I live in Minnesota (I’ve ALWAYS lived here, but this is a realization that strengthens over time) is that almost everyone that has visited this Great Lake feels they have an extraordinary relationship with it. I try to consider I am just one of millions of its fanatical admirers, but the energy that emits from the lake when I see it feels just for me.

A paved path for pedestrians and bicyclists appropriately called the Lakewalk winds for miles through Duluth, between train tracks and the shore of the lake. After walking a couple miles through neighborhoods, I’m grateful to join this pathway under the cover of trees. I’m all alone and I spot a bench that sits where the trees part. From its vantage point, the lake can be seen, almost metallic under the sun. It’s windy and large waves ripple the surface. Society by Eddie Vedder plays in my single earbud I’m wearing. It’s a song from the Into the Wild soundtrack – I was obsessed with both the book and movie when I was in high school. The whoosh of the wind and the glitter of the lake and the combination of bliss and freedom all swell within me as I notice a dirt path between the trees leading towards the shore. It winds out of sight, but if I could cautiously make my way down, I could plunge my hands into the water as I’m aching to do.

I think if I take my time, and without the threat of humiliation under an audience, I will be okay. But almost immediately, I fall right to my butt, scuffing along until a fallen tree stops my tumble. Braced against the tree, I see the rest of the path I hadn’t been able to spot from above. And it’s even steeper, lined with jagged rocks and no trees.

“You’ve got to be friggin kidding me,” I say to myself in conversational volume, and I don’t say frig. As I further assess my options, I notice two young people lounging on large rocks within probable earshot. They continue reading their books, either genuinely having not heard me or polite enough to ignore me, as most do when they hear someone muttering aloud to themselves.

By the time I make it to the edge of the lake, I have to evaluate a leg injury. I’m unsure if it’s a laceration or a muscle injury, but there’s a pain behind one of my knees. From what I can tell, it’s just a scrape. Maybe it’s only my pride that’s stinging. I still have seven miles to walk unless I turn back, which would obliterate the pride.

I walk through a park very near a hospital where I used to work. So at first it feels like my imagination when I recognize a former coworker. But it’s her, and a vivid memory of an exchange we shared pops into my head. I was dipping vegetables into ranch dressing in our breakroom and she told me that vegetables “don’t count” if you eat them with ranch. I literally hope she’s okay.

When I get to Canal Park, I weave through parking lots to get to my restaurant of choice as quickly as possible. I am hungry and thirsty and feeling sorry for myself after my fall, still touching my “wound” periodically to see if I’m gushing blood (not at all). I finally arrive at Northern Waters Smokehaus and order the mmMmm, an incredible sandwich (turkey, sriracha and hoisin sauces, with slaw and mayo on top on a toasted roll- AHH) with a humiliating name. I stand by their water dispenser and gulp like no one can see me.

The sandwich and water break supply me the sustenance to carry on, and I head back on a different route towards my car. Turning onto Superior Street, I retrace the commute I used to take to and from work years ago. I pass the grocery store where I’d stop near-daily to secure a giant Peace Tea. I walk by houses I’ve attended parties, an old boyfriend’s house, a churchyard where I once had a drunken meltdown about my general lack of direction in life.  

But as I walk by an old apartment where I used to live, I notice a new business next door where a daycare once operated. Over a decade ago, when I lived there, I would often wake to children’s screams as they played outside. Until I became a parent myself, I could never identify the difference between a child’s scream of terror and a child’s scream of joy, so I was constantly on edge.  

But the sign affixed to the building this day of the walk says Wired Whisker – Cats, Coffee, Café. My mind grapples to find a solution that won’t wound me. Maybe it’s a coffee house with a cat THEME? Beverage names that are cat puns? Feline-inspired artwork?? A quick Google search confirms my nightmare. I was a decade too early to live directly next to a cat café. I try not to envision what could have been – strolls next door to read, write, or study in the company of a variety of little angel cats. In my irrational disappointment, I lose all hop in my step for the next mile, trudging like a pathetic Charlie Brown.

When I feel badly or discouraged (from circumstances WORSE than the disappointment surrounding the cat café), my most menacing thought is that I’ll never recover. I worry the dark cloud will just never clear, and I push against that irrationality with success that varies. When I make time for these long walks, not only do I clear my mind and reset myself, I also capture moments I can retrieve later. I’ll store the feelings and memories where I keep my other good ones, for easy access when I’m at the dentist or otherwise in distress.

By the time I arrive back at my car, I’m replenished by the time I’ve had to think, push myself physically just enough to elicit pride and strength, and feel the lightness of time passed without much responsibility. Until there are long-term and nationwide solutions for the burnout so many of us feel, to find a quality outlet is sacred. But to anyone and everyone, I’ll recommend a nice long walk.   

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