103. The Singular Glory of a Solo Walk
When I’m stuck and can’t work something out on the page, or when my head is too full of chatter, I’ve learned to get out of my mind and into my body.
In mid-March, I was working on a grueling last edit of my memoir Between Two Kingdoms. From early in the morning until late at night, I sat hunched over my computer in my parents’ attic, second-guessing every comma, re-thinking every word. I was panicking, sure it was a total disaster, and my quarantine roommate Carmen offered to read the entire manuscript out loud with me. Between the stress of the deadline and being so sedentary, our bodies ached. From time to time, we’d have to take a break—walking in the woods and stopping for a spontaneous snowball fight, or doing yoga there in the attic.
One afternoon, we were both in downward dog, and I said to Carmen, “I have an idea.” I rambled something vague about journal prompts and helping others complete a 100-day project. “Go write that down,” Carmen told me. “Now—before you forget it.” And I got up from the mat, and I did. I didn’t expect it would go anywhere, at least not immediately. But writing it down made the idea seem more real, and I kept mulling it over. Then as the number of cases of Covid-19 rose, as cities and states and countries went into lockdown, that seed of an idea—one that had occurred in a moment when I was giving my mind a break—sprouted a week later into the Isolation Journals.
This isn’t a one-off. When I’m stuck and can’t work something out on the page, or when my head is too full of chatter, I’ve learned to get out of my mind and into my body. I go for a walk, and as I move and fall into a rhythm, the chatter quiets. Whatever knots my thoughts are in begin to loosen.
It happened just yesterday. Over the weekend, Jon and I moved to an artist’s residency, to a house near a river with miles and miles of walking paths. I’ve been sick—last week I tested positive for Lyme disease, which has made my joints swollen, my movements slow and labored. But yesterday morning, I felt good enough to take a walk, and on a long gentle amble, I began to get an idea of what I want to write next. Right now, I’m just seeing little glimpses, like glints of sunlight on the river, but it feels good to be inspired again. As I settle into our new digs, I’m setting a new intention to take a quiet, solitary morning walk before I write. I trust that soon enough, the seed of this next idea will begin to sprout.
Prompt:
Begin with a movement that roots you in your body. Maybe take a walk outside, or dance around your house, or take deep breaths and blow each exhale through loose horse lips—whatever will get you out of your head. Capture what springs to mind using the voice recording app on your phone or by jotting quick notes. Do this for as long as you’d like.
Next, write in your journal about what came up. You can elaborate on the thoughts and ideas you had, or you can get meta, reflecting on how movement carried you into a new contemplative space.
Isobel Copley
Location: Stamford, England
About: The singular glory of a solo walk. Walking is downtime. It is thinking time, drifting time, away from it all time and prompt 103 was easy for me. This was a joy to write. I live in a particular corner of gentle old England so being able to share it this way is a pleasure.
Age: 59
103
I walk. I wake early and know old dog is downstairs already waiting for me, so we go. The great park is ours, we share it with the birds. Some mornings mist floats six inches above the grass, I am still dreaming. The light is turquoise sharp. Sound is pure, unsullied by comings and goings, interrupted only by birdsong. Fresh loose air, gallons of it. I breathe, old dog breathes, we enter our thoughts. We amble, one foot in front of the other, no need for pace. Old dog seeks new smells, her nose still works, this is her pleasure. I wait for her and just stand. No need to hurry but every need to just relax into the moment and be.
Acres of lush green parkland punctuated by ancient oaks, some five hundred years old. Battles have been fought around them, children have hid and sought around them, lovers have canoodled beneath them. Still the leaves burst each spring, the acorns drop to be eaten by the deer and the cycle continues. The herd graze unbothered by us, they’ve seen it all before. The park is ours right now but it is always theirs. The house appears over the hill. Turrets, spires, crenulations and flags. It is as beautiful as the park. There is a family inside waking up to the morning; they shower, eat breakfast, go to work/school, love tickle fight interrupt cuddle share like us but they do it in Burghley House with five centuries of grand family echoes.
Thoughts form, flutter like butterflies then flit away. Reminders and jobs to be done. Wishful wistful what-I’d-really-like-to-do thoughts are crowded out by the what-I-forgot-to-do yesterdays and the what-I-should-really-do-firsts. Courage is needed for the what-I’d-really-like-to-do thoughts. Can I find it? I try to squeeze out the really-ought-to-dos but they have weights on their feet and won’t budge. They need to be blackmailed out of the way by treats and promises. If I try that really-like-to-do and am able to step back with some pride the should-do-firsts can just take a back seat. But if I never try there will always be justifiable room for the should-do-firsts. Ok today will be the day. My courage lifts like the mist. The sun smiles at us. Sky is deepening blue. It is easy to be uplifted by early morning promise. The next thoughts seep in, shopping lists of thoughts. How can I capture them? I don’t try. I breathe. Old dog breathes. We are here in the minute.
Runners overtake. Their breath is heavy like their footsteps. They don’t see us. Plugged in to their alternative worlds running to music or podcasts. Takes their minds off the distance and the slog.
The park is no longer ours. Birds grow distant. We are sharing with other dogs and other owners. Are they thinkers too? Do they have lists with dos and don’ts in their heads? Are their heads calm or do they rage. Their faces say nothing more than ‘Good Morning’. We pass by each other’s private worlds. My thoughts mellow, no longer the urgency of a turquoise morning they fall into the pattern of every day as promises and routines merge. Just one thought, one inner secret for today will sit in my palm. I won’t let it slip away over my coffee.
Old dog plods on. We think our thoughts together.
Patrick McDonnell
Location: Montreal, Quebec, Canada
About: A self prompt about my grandfather.
Age: 68
Remember Doc
My grandfather was 'dirt poor' in every meaning of that expression. Yet, he was the richest of men at the same time. Born in the bayou state of Louisiana in the back woods, he grew up poor; there was some talk of. horse stealing. And some talk of a Cherokee chief and a Spanish noble man. But it was all talk. A lot of talk in small towns. Like of the Sharp girls and the one who married my grand dad. She had aunts who were Cajun, French speakers, and a hoot. I don't know how it was in those days, I guess it was like today only worse. They had three boys and two girls. They had it hard.
My mother used to regale me with stories of eating 'poke salad' and picking cotton; the first was stuff you picked at the side of the road and the second was back breaking work. Especially for a girl. My grandad went up in the world, getting a job as a mule driver on oil rigs construction in Oil City. I have a picture of my mother in a rag dress, half sewn up in a crazy quilt kind of way, her eyes piercing with a look that said, "I am not going to end up like my mother." I wonder if she was wearing the dress when she fell into a holding pool of oil - hope not - because she would have looked like Br'er Rabbit.
Her mother died from diphtheria (I think) and her older brother was run down by a drunk rich guy that got clean away with it. The other two brothers joined the navy and the army, one ended up as a Seabee and the other as a tank driver mechanic; I knew him best because he was close to my mom. Uncle Jimmy. See my posting on his funeral. Her older sister was a wild one, who was maybe a flapper but certainly a pistol. She married Hoss and then divorced and then my Jewish Uncle in Chicago.
My mother told me stories of my grandfather's generosity, how he took in his sister and her kids, and my mother had to do their washing. She didn't like that. She didn't like it when later they turned their scrap metal business into oil drilling and made it big. She always thought they could have been more grateful. Because my mother had to work hard, and she got good grades, then won a scholarship. But she couldn't accept it, as she said she couldn't pay for her books. So she learned how to be a dental hygienist instead and that paid for her first car. She was going places.
I guess my grandfather was just being his happy self, always generous and willing to lend money. If he didn't have a nickel he would borrow one to pay you. Generous to a fault and a lady's man. He learned how to play the fiddle by ear. He married 4 or 5 times, one he forgot to divorce, because he 'felt sorry' for them. At the end, when he was 75 he was married to a 35 year old woman. Not pretty but kind. Some time he married a real Cajun, and the sparks flew.
There was some trouble with the KKK because they said he was being too friendly with them. I saw he was very friendly, and respectful to the 'coloured folks' - many were his friends. They were all as poor as he was.
Visits to my grand dad's dirt farm were few and far between, but always filled with fun things to do like gather the eggs at 5 in the morning. Sit out in the back in the heat with him smoking his corn pipe. Listening to his stories. He used to use a hammer like a steam machine, one stroke for a 6 inch nail. He used to take us out to shoot, in the back lot, shooting bottles and cans. I don't think I have ever met a man without a mean bone in him, than my grand father. They called him 'Doc" out of respect. He didn't have anything and what he had he was glad to share. His son, my uncle Jimmy, told me after he passed that my grand dad's dirt farm was in Jimmy's name just in case he decided to give it away to someone on a whim.
He had little education, and could hardly read and write. The letters he sent to my mother were spelled phonetically and written in block letters. But he could talk up a storm. Was funny. Always had a kind word for me. A real country gentleman. When we would go for hair cuts at the local town, I would listen to the gossip about the last confederate soldier to die or the latest lynching. Sad but true, it was the Deep South, and despite the syrupy accent there were horrible things that went on there behind the eating cracklings and the blood boudin.
That's it.
