Beautiful Old Broads Go Walking

                        “We’re all just walking each other home”    Ram Dass

In a recent issue of a popular magazine, the editor commented that the highlight of her day was to to plug her Jawbone UP tracker into her phone and count the number of steps taken that day. Wow!  My mother would be astonished.  She was a woman addicted to walking but never dreamed of counting her steps.  She often told me about walking out on a Sunday afternoon in Ireland as a young girl.  After church, her and her sisters, Billie, May and Ger hiked across the Wicklow hills for afternoon tea at their aunts.  How far did they walk?  My mother had no idea.  About 5 miles there and five miles back she thought but then, the Irish are vague about distances.  Even posted road signs don’t always agree on the distance between places.

 

However, Mother wasn’t vague about her walking.  Even after moving to Detroit years later, she walked everywhere.  And many Sunday afternoons, I walked with her.  There wasn’t really any goal.   Sometimes we stopped at Cunningham’s drugstore and Mother had a coffee.  Sometimes I got a cone at the dairy on Broad Street but in general, we walked plain and simple.  No bands on our wrists to track distance or gadgets to monitor our pulse rate or count our heart beats.  What foolishness, Mother would no doubt say.  She instinctively knew that walking was good for you.  Though she did keep a steady pace in her sensible laced low heel oxfords, she would pause to examine the lilies of the valley beginning to bloom or a new hat display in the window of a store on Grand River Avenue. She often smiled.  I remember that.  It was a pleasure for her to walk out whether in the mountains of County Wicklow or the sidewalks of Detroit.  She enjoyed the sheer joy of putting one foot in front of the other.

I inherited my mom’s love of walking and sometimes on a Sunday afternoon, I strike out for a stroll.  No I don’t wear a pedometer.  I just walk along and on a rare occasion or two, I feel her presence, hear the thump of her heel, feel the touch of her arm.  Oh, it’s a fleeting thing, like the flight of a hummingbird or the smell of lilac and I try to grab it and hold it but it passes quickly.  Mostly when I walk, I daydream and imagine and ponder and write elegant poetry that I can’t recall when I return home. Ditto for the succinct clever letters I shoot off to the news editor.   Walking is like that.  It frees your mind.  And I notice so many things I never notice when I’m driving…like how steep this hill is…or how poplar leaves quiver in a breeze.  Life is truly different from a walker’s perspective.

I’m all for exercise.  That said, there are times to just enjoy the sweet warmth of the sun or the touch of a breeze and be aware of how blessed we are to see, to hear the birdsong and to have feet to carry us along on this amazing journey of life.  And at night after a long peaceful stroll through a park or along a beach or in your own neighborhood, never mind plugging the miles walked into your i-Phone, just savor the peaceful calmness that comes with a long walk.  I know my mother would agree.

      

                        “We’re all just walking each other home”    Ram Dass

In a recent issue of a popular magazine, the editor commented that the highlight of her day was to to plug her Jawbone UP tracker into her phone and count the number of steps taken that day. Wow!  My mother would be astonished.  She was a woman addicted to walking but never dreamed of counting her steps.  She often told me about walking out on a Sunday afternoon in Ireland as a young girl.  After church, her and her sisters, Billie, May and Ger hiked across the Wicklow hills for afternoon tea at their aunts.  How far did they walk?  My mother had no idea.  About 5 miles there and five miles back she thought but then, the Irish are vague about distances.  Even posted road signs don’t always agree on the distance between places.

 

However, Mother wasn’t vague about her walking.  Even after moving to Detroit years later, she walked everywhere.  And many Sunday afternoons, I walked with her.  There wasn’t really any goal.   Sometimes we stopped at Cunningham’s drugstore and Mother had a coffee.  Sometimes I got a cone at the dairy on Broad Street but in general, we walked plain and simple.  No bands on our wrists to track distance or gadgets to monitor our pulse rate or count our heart beats.  What foolishness, Mother would no doubt say.  She instinctively knew that walking was good for you.  Though she did keep a steady pace in her sensible laced low heel oxfords, she would pause to examine the lilies of the valley beginning to bloom or a new hat display in the window of a store on Grand River Avenue. She often smiled.  I remember that.  It was a pleasure for her to walk out whether in the mountains of County Wicklow or the sidewalks of Detroit.  She enjoyed the sheer joy of putting one foot in front of the other.

I inherited my mom’s love of walking and sometimes on a Sunday afternoon, I strike out for a stroll.  No I don’t wear a pedometer.  I just walk along and on a rare occasion or two, I feel her presence, hear the thump of her heel, feel the touch of her arm.  Oh, it’s a fleeting thing, like the flight of a hummingbird or the smell of lilac and I try to grab it and hold it but it passes quickly.  Mostly when I walk, I daydream and imagine and ponder and write elegant poetry that I can’t recall when I return home. Ditto for the succinct clever letters I shoot off to the news editor.   Walking is like that.  It frees your mind.  And I notice so many things I never notice when I’m driving…like how steep this hill is…or how poplar leaves quiver in a breeze.  Life is truly different from a walker’s perspective.

I’m all for exercise.  That said, there are times to just enjoy the sweet warmth of the sun or the touch of a breeze and be aware of how blessed we are to see, to hear the birdsong and to have feet to carry us along on this amazing journey of life.  And at night after a long peaceful stroll through a park or along a beach or in your own neighborhood, never mind plugging the miles walked into your i-Phone, just savor the peaceful calmness that comes with a long walk.  I know my mother would agree.

      

                        “We’re all just walking each other home”    Ram Dass

In a recent issue of a popular magazine, the editor commented that the highlight of her day was to to plug her Jawbone UP tracker into her phone and count the number of steps taken that day. Wow!  My mother would be astonished.  She was a woman addicted to walking but never dreamed of counting her steps.  She often told me about walking out on a Sunday afternoon in Ireland as a young girl.  After church, her and her sisters, Billie, May and Ger hiked across the Wicklow hills for afternoon tea at their aunts.  How far did they walk?  My mother had no idea.  About 5 miles there and five miles back she thought but then, the Irish are vague about distances.  Even posted road signs don’t always agree on the distance between places.

 

However, Mother wasn’t vague about her walking.  Even after moving to Detroit years later, she walked everywhere.  And many Sunday afternoons, I walked with her.  There wasn’t really any goal.   Sometimes we stopped at Cunningham’s drugstore and Mother had a coffee.  Sometimes I got a cone at the dairy on Broad Street but in general, we walked plain and simple.  No bands on our wrists to track distance or gadgets to monitor our pulse rate or count our heart beats.  What foolishness, Mother would no doubt say.  She instinctively knew that walking was good for you.  Though she did keep a steady pace in her sensible laced low heel oxfords, she would pause to examine the lilies of the valley beginning to bloom or a new hat display in the window of a store on Grand River Avenue. She often smiled.  I remember that.  It was a pleasure for her to walk out whether in the mountains of County Wicklow or the sidewalks of Detroit.  She enjoyed the sheer joy of putting one foot in front of the other.

I inherited my mom’s love of walking and sometimes on a Sunday afternoon, I strike out for a stroll.  No I don’t wear a pedometer.  I just walk along and on a rare occasion or two, I feel her presence, hear the thump of her heel, feel the touch of her arm.  Oh, it’s a fleeting thing, like the flight of a hummingbird or the smell of lilac and I try to grab it and hold it but it passes quickly.  Mostly when I walk, I daydream and imagine and ponder and write elegant poetry that I can’t recall when I return home. Ditto for the succinct clever letters I shoot off to the news editor.   Walking is like that.  It frees your mind.  And I notice so many things I never notice when I’m driving…like how steep this hill is…or how poplar leaves quiver in a breeze.  Life is truly different from a walker’s perspective.

I’m all for exercise.  That said, there are times to just enjoy the sweet warmth of the sun or the touch of a breeze and be aware of how blessed we are to see, to hear the birdsong and to have feet to carry us along on this amazing journey of life.  And at night after a long peaceful stroll through a park or along a beach or in your own neighborhood, never mind plugging the miles walked into your i-Phone, just savor the peaceful calmness that comes with a long walk.  I know my mother would agree.

      

                        “We’re all just walking each other home”    Ram Dass

In a recent issue of a popular magazine, the editor commented that the highlight of her day was to to plug her Jawbone UP tracker into her phone and count the number of steps taken that day. Wow!  My mother would be astonished.  She was a woman addicted to walking but never dreamed of counting her steps.  She often told me about walking out on a Sunday afternoon in Ireland as a young girl.  After church, her and her sisters, Billie, May and Ger hiked across the Wicklow hills for afternoon tea at their aunts.  How far did they walk?  My mother had no idea.  About 5 miles there and five miles back she thought but then, the Irish are vague about distances.  Even posted road signs don’t always agree on the distance between places.

 

However, Mother wasn’t vague about her walking.  Even after moving to Detroit years later, she walked everywhere.  And many Sunday afternoons, I walked with her.  There wasn’t really any goal.   Sometimes we stopped at Cunningham’s drugstore and Mother had a coffee.  Sometimes I got a cone at the dairy on Broad Street but in general, we walked plain and simple.  No bands on our wrists to track distance or gadgets to monitor our pulse rate or count our heart beats.  What foolishness, Mother would no doubt say.  She instinctively knew that walking was good for you.  Though she did keep a steady pace in her sensible laced low heel oxfords, she would pause to examine the lilies of the valley beginning to bloom or a new hat display in the window of a store on Grand River Avenue. She often smiled.  I remember that.  It was a pleasure for her to walk out whether in the mountains of County Wicklow or the sidewalks of Detroit.  She enjoyed the sheer joy of putting one foot in front of the other.

I inherited my mom’s love of walking and sometimes on a Sunday afternoon, I strike out for a stroll.  No I don’t wear a pedometer.  I just walk along and on a rare occasion or two, I feel her presence, hear the thump of her heel, feel the touch of her arm.  Oh, it’s a fleeting thing, like the flight of a hummingbird or the smell of lilac and I try to grab it and hold it but it passes quickly.  Mostly when I walk, I daydream and imagine and ponder and write elegant poetry that I can’t recall when I return home. Ditto for the succinct clever letters I shoot off to the news editor.   Walking is like that.  It frees your mind.  And I notice so many things I never notice when I’m driving…like how steep this hill is…or how poplar leaves quiver in a breeze.  Life is truly different from a walker’s perspective.

I’m all for exercise.  That said, there are times to just enjoy the sweet warmth of the sun or the touch of a breeze and be aware of how blessed we are to see, to hear the birdsong and to have feet to carry us along on this amazing journey of life.  And at night after a long peaceful stroll through a park or along a beach or in your own neighborhood, never mind plugging the miles walked into your i-Phone, just savor the peaceful calmness that comes with a long walk.  I know my mother would agree.

      

                        “We’re all just walking each other home”    Ram Dass

In a recent issue of a popular magazine, the editor commented that the highlight of her day was to to plug her Jawbone UP tracker into her phone and count the number of steps taken that day. Wow!  My mother would be astonished.  She was a woman addicted to walking but never dreamed of counting her steps.  She often told me about walking out on a Sunday afternoon in Ireland as a young girl.  After church, her and her sisters, Billie, May and Ger hiked across the Wicklow hills for afternoon tea at their aunts.  How far did they walk?  My mother had no idea.  About 5 miles there and five miles back she thought but then, the Irish are vague about distances.  Even posted road signs don’t always agree on the distance between places.

 

However, Mother wasn’t vague about her walking.  Even after moving to Detroit years later, she walked everywhere.  And many Sunday afternoons, I walked with her.  There wasn’t really any goal.   Sometimes we stopped at Cunningham’s drugstore and Mother had a coffee.  Sometimes I got a cone at the dairy on Broad Street but in general, we walked plain and simple.  No bands on our wrists to track distance or gadgets to monitor our pulse rate or count our heart beats.  What foolishness, Mother would no doubt say.  She instinctively knew that walking was good for you.  Though she did keep a steady pace in her sensible laced low heel oxfords, she would pause to examine the lilies of the valley beginning to bloom or a new hat display in the window of a store on Grand River Avenue. She often smiled.  I remember that.  It was a pleasure for her to walk out whether in the mountains of County Wicklow or the sidewalks of Detroit.  She enjoyed the sheer joy of putting one foot in front of the other.

I inherited my mom’s love of walking and sometimes on a Sunday afternoon, I strike out for a stroll.  No I don’t wear a pedometer.  I just walk along and on a rare occasion or two, I feel her presence, hear the thump of her heel, feel the touch of her arm.  Oh, it’s a fleeting thing, like the flight of a hummingbird or the smell of lilac and I try to grab it and hold it but it passes quickly.  Mostly when I walk, I daydream and imagine and ponder and write elegant poetry that I can’t recall when I return home. Ditto for the succinct clever letters I shoot off to the news editor.   Walking is like that.  It frees your mind.  And I notice so many things I never notice when I’m driving…like how steep this hill is…or how poplar leaves quiver in a breeze.  Life is truly different from a walker’s perspective.

I’m all for exercise.  That said, there are times to just enjoy the sweet warmth of the sun or the touch of a breeze and be aware of how blessed we are to see, to hear the birdsong and to have feet to carry us along on this amazing journey of life.  And at night after a long peaceful stroll through a park or along a beach or in your own neighborhood, never mind plugging the miles walked into your i-Phone, just savor the peaceful calmness that comes with a long walk.  I know my mother would agree.

      

                        “We’re all just walking each other home”    Ram Dass

In a recent issue of a popular magazine, the editor commented that the highlight of her day was to to plug her Jawbone UP tracker into her phone and count the number of steps taken that day. Wow!  My mother would be astonished.  She was a woman addicted to walking but never dreamed of counting her steps.  She often told me about walking out on a Sunday afternoon in Ireland as a young girl.  After church, her and her sisters, Billie, May and Ger hiked across the Wicklow hills for afternoon tea at their aunts.  How far did they walk?  My mother had no idea.  About 5 miles there and five miles back she thought but then, the Irish are vague about distances.  Even posted road signs don’t always agree on the distance between places.

 

However, Mother wasn’t vague about her walking.  Even after moving to Detroit years later, she walked everywhere.  And many Sunday afternoons, I walked with her.  There wasn’t really any goal.   Sometimes we stopped at Cunningham’s drugstore and Mother had a coffee.  Sometimes I got a cone at the dairy on Broad Street but in general, we walked plain and simple.  No bands on our wrists to track distance or gadgets to monitor our pulse rate or count our heart beats.  What foolishness, Mother would no doubt say.  She instinctively knew that walking was good for you.  Though she did keep a steady pace in her sensible laced low heel oxfords, she would pause to examine the lilies of the valley beginning to bloom or a new hat display in the window of a store on Grand River Avenue. She often smiled.  I remember that.  It was a pleasure for her to walk out whether in the mountains of County Wicklow or the sidewalks of Detroit.  She enjoyed the sheer joy of putting one foot in front of the other.

I inherited my mom’s love of walking and sometimes on a Sunday afternoon, I strike out for a stroll.  No I don’t wear a pedometer.  I just walk along and on a rare occasion or two, I feel her presence, hear the thump of her heel, feel the touch of her arm.  Oh, it’s a fleeting thing, like the flight of a hummingbird or the smell of lilac and I try to grab it and hold it but it passes quickly.  Mostly when I walk, I daydream and imagine and ponder and write elegant poetry that I can’t recall when I return home. Ditto for the succinct clever letters I shoot off to the news editor.   Walking is like that.  It frees your mind.  And I notice so many things I never notice when I’m driving…like how steep this hill is…or how poplar leaves quiver in a breeze.  Life is truly different from a walker’s perspective.

I’m all for exercise.  That said, there are times to just enjoy the sweet warmth of the sun or the touch of a breeze and be aware of how blessed we are to see, to hear the birdsong and to have feet to carry us along on this amazing journey of life.  And at night after a long peaceful stroll through a park or along a beach or in your own neighborhood, never mind plugging the miles walked into your i-Phone, just savor the peaceful calmness that comes with a long walk.  I know my mother would agree.