Just Keep Walking
a reflection on resilience
Friends,
February was a tough month for me. I wrote very little. I read very little. I wonder, have you been struggling, too? Is the world breaking you down? Today, I offer you some reflections from my office window.
Sending love and resistance,
Michele
With a cane in hand, he takes guarded steps in slow motion while everyone else speeds by—a time-lapse view of humanity.
From my office window, I can see a section of the paved, ten-mile loop trail that lines both sides of the Columbia River. The shores of the public trail balance the urban waterfront with pockets of natural habitat. Ospreys circle high above. Gray herons, long legs outstretched, fly low along the water. Bald eagles often perch in tall cottonwood trees on the banks, waiting to dive for fish. Ducks and geese fly by; their cacophonous honks permeate my office windows. The occasional deer or raccoon ambles through on dark winter mornings.
Amongst all the wildlife, there are thousands of people that pass as the seasons change.
With the first signs of spring come groups of stay-at-home moms in yoga pants pushing oversized strollers, their chatter carrying through the breeze as they move together. When my kids were babies, I hungered for grown-up conversations and relationships that didn’t involve my milk production. I see myself in those young mothers jogging by, and it doesn’t seem like that long ago, even though my children are grown.
Summer break means kids on the trail running, biking, or skateboarding with energy drinks in hand. I close my eyes and remember the tokens of teenage summer: sunscreen and soda, damp beach towels and sunglasses, crushes and best friends. It wasn’t so long ago that I spent summer days jumping off docks with my best friends, listening to my favorite songs on the radio.
Weekdays at noon bring clusters of professionals in slacks and sneakers, squeezing in extra steps between meetings, committing to company wellness plans and New Year’s goals. I glance at my smartwatch, mindful of how few steps I’ve taken today. My desk job doesn’t help my step count. I swear under my breath that I will finally lose those twenty pounds this year.
On the hottest days of summer, when the temperature passes 100 degrees, the midday crowd thins to a few committed athletes running by, sweat darkening their shirts. Even the animals rest during the heat of the day. Inside, I pull my sweater on tighter to fight against the air conditioning that gets colder as I get older.
Except in the cold of winter, early mornings often hold quieter figures. Homeless people sneak from the shadows carrying their bedding and belongings to move to a new spot before the day fully wakes. Guilt hits my heart as I know I will go home and rest in far too many square feet of home for just my husband, the dog, and me.
The trail features all of it—walkers, runners, rollerbladers, cyclists, skateboarders, e-bike riders—human motion in every form. A cross-section of humanity passing by.
The old man stands apart.
His jeans hang loosely on his thin, bowed legs. Regardless of the outside temperature, he wears his windbreaker fully zipped. His eyes, framed by bushy eyebrows, watch the ground as his cane meets the pavement just before he takes another slow and measured step. He looks like he is in pain.
Cyclists flash past him. Dogs trot by him with their owners. Even toddlers, freed for a moment from their strollers, outpace him.
He keeps walking. I’ve been thinking about him a lot lately.
The world is so heavy right now.
Human rights are debated as if they are optional. We learn more every day about years of trafficking and abuse of girls by the rich men of the world. Families are wondering whether their marriages, their bodies, their identities, their jobs, their finances, and their safety are secure. The news carries constant images of war and children caught in its flames.
For many, this fight is not new. It is generational. Inherited. Exhausting. For others—especially those who once felt insulated from systemic struggle—it feels like a rude awakening, a realization that stability was never as permanent as it seemed.
And yet, from my window, I cannot tell who voted for whom. I cannot see party affiliation stitched onto hats. I cannot discern who loves whom, who prays where, or who fears what. I see people moving along a river. People living their lives.
And a frail man who keeps walking.
There is something defiant in his pace. In a world obsessed with speed, dominance, and winning, he chooses persistence. He does not race. He does not perform. He does not compare. He advances inch by inch, because forward is forward no matter how small the distance.
Resistance rarely looks glamorous. Sometimes it looks like getting up when your joints ache. Or showing up when headlines make you want to hide. It looks like writing even when the words are hard to find. It looks like having hard conversations without giving up on each other. It looks like voting even when you feel disillusioned. It looks like advocating for someone else’s rights even when your own feel secure. It looks like choosing not to let bitterness calcify your heart.
The old man may walk for exercise. Or rehabilitation. Or to keep loneliness at bay. I don’t know his reasons.
But the act itself is a quiet sermon for us all.
In case you missed it:
I recently published an original I am incredibly proud of with Short Reads: Holding Patterns. I’d be incredibly honored if you read it.
"And yet, from my window, I cannot tell who voted for whom. I cannot see party affiliation stitched onto hats. I cannot discern who loves whom, who prays where, or who fears what. I see people moving along a river."
❤️ ❤️ ❤️
I am reminded of a time in my teens (in the late 1970's) when I was waiting tables (in your neck of the woods - Ridgefield WA!) and I witnessed an elder man walk VERY slowly through the busy restaurant toward the restroom. I was so taken by taking him in that I made a "poetry note" about it, something about imagining slowing down in life like that. There I was in my young body somehow knowing this person was experiencing the world at a.. different speed? Now I am 63 and I am currently walking with the help of a cane --to get where I need to go, to do what I need to do, to get my steps in, for health, for sanity. Sometimes I walk around my in-laws pond, sometimes I do walking meditation ala Thich Nhat Hanh.. and now I will sometimes think of the old man you describe and the one who transported me so many years ago. Thanks!