Chapter One: On Walking

A life of wandering

“Peace is present right here and now, in ourselves and in everything we do and see. Every breath we take, every step we take, can be filled with peace, joy, and serenity. The question is whether or not we are in touch with it. We need only to be awake, alive in the present moment.”
Thích Nhất Hạnh

One late April morning in Điện Bàn, walking barely three minutes for a bowl of bún bò Huế, I stepped into a small pocket of Wonderland: three field hands tugging garlic from the soil. One with a cartoonish laugh and a hearty “Hello,” another flashed two large front teeth, and the third shaded beneath a faded umbrella like the Mad Hatter of the harvest. I paused, exchanged smiles, and moved on. In that moment, I found proof that even the briefest wander can open a rabbit hole to the imagination.

I don’t just enjoy walking; I love and find joy in walking.

Spending intentional moments lost in peace, taking one step at a time, I’ve found an immense gift in more informal, mindful walking and occasional formal walking meditation.

While not the same slow placing of each footstep known to walking meditation of kinhin or cankama practitioners, it serves a vaguely similar purpose. And you know, I also think that since meditation is such a personal journey, we can create mindful moments in whatever scene we find ourselves in, wherever we may be walking, while maintaining a more peaceful pace during our wandering.

When I’m walking, I’m not just paying attention to the way my feet move, but all parts of my body and its surroundings. Taking in the sights, smells, emotions, and the often overwhelming love I feel while coming back to the awareness that lies in the wandering that follows.

Distance loosens the mind as surely as it warms the muscles. Letting the mind drift into detouring and day-dreaming trains the reflex that snaps us back to the present. A wandering mind is a gym for awareness, and we alone set both the reps and the weight.

I often find myself in physical directionlessness. In this free wandering, being lost allows one to become more aware of possibility and certainty in emptiness.

Though sometimes we need a little support from both hardware and software friends:

I recall my favorite walking stick, which I found and transformed one year at summer camp. I carved a notch at the top, perfect for resting my thumb, and a face just below it, so I always had something to look at when I needed a returned smile and a reprieve from temporary loneliness on the trail. Attached to the walking stick was a bag filled with herbs, twigs, and other such things that often acted like a pseudo-fidget toy for a young person I could reach for when stopping for a rest.

I kept the walking stick around for many years until I felt I no longer needed its comfort. Now, I look back and wonder if I might want company from a new item or how I might carve one today. The terrible Swiss Army knife skills and all. Not for the same comfort necessarily, but for the simple act of creation. The small dimples it would make in the ground with each step. The knots along its center. The knowing of “I walked here, and I experienced the world,” this peaceful relationship to time and effort, is something I’m learning to rediscover once more as I have re-dedicated my life to wandering and adventure.