Since spring arrived, it's been a mission of mine to walk slower.
My love for walking was born in the eighties, when Debbie and I and our kids went for walks every day. The thing is, back then, we were walking along an unpaved country road. Our little caravan: she and I walking, taking turns pushing Jared in his stroller, Carly and Kelsey and Chad on their bikes up ahead, owned the road. We walked fast for health. But for mental health, we stopped to smell the wild roses or pick mulberries or admire some wild looking tree or another. But in between, we walked fast.
I never stopped walking fast. You can imagine the problem this causes in the heart of a big city. I am affronted by tourists dawdling in front of me, friends stopping to chat in the middle of the sidewalk when I'm trying to get to a hair appointment. PEOPLE STANDING ON THE ESCALATOR. I'm bursting to sail around the humanity. Heaven help the throngs I've cursed at Yonge and Queen or Dundas Square when I've got somewhere to be. It'll be all my fault when they all die slow and painful deaths.
These days I'm working on that. I'm consciously slowing my pace; I'm wandering home from the station rather than getting home fast.
When Debbie and I were walking fast, it was about having the freedom to do so. These days when I'm walking fast it's about not having freedom. Clearly I'm going about getting it in the wrong way.
Walking slower and feeling freer. I'm working on that these days.