Ruminative Walking Is No Longer My Thing, Thanks To The Trees

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It was the weekend, and I had the calendar clear — no work, no meetings, no in-person events. Just time, beautiful time. I could read, work on my writing, do online puzzles, do the dishes slow and easy, do the weekly hot-water wash of the bed sheets because I’m allergic to dust mites, or do none of that. Plus, wet snow was falling from the sky.

I wanted to walk, an adventure it would surely be, but as soon as I opened the front door to get a sense of things, I closed it.

Brrr. Heck no. No walking today.

The day wore on, and the idea of walking kept nagging me. The windows throughout the house showed me what I was missing. The window in the living room where I was writing presented a group of crows hopping and squawking around a huge, fluffy hawk sitting undeterred on the ground. I watched the drama, wishing I were outside, too, a devout member of the nature club regardless of the weather.

Through another window, I could see the beauty of large trees and small scraggly bushes holding the freezing white stuff on their branches and twigs. A leafless forest is the most gorgeous thing in a snowfall. The insanely complicated lines of the snow-lined treetops, and the sunless sky that encouraged a subtle light gray and soft white — exquisite.

Looking out a window upstairs, I could peer down onto the driveway and the quietude of the day — no driving, no car engines passing back and forth on the road nearby, no errands, just staying put and doing less than more.

I wrote for a while and read the current book I’m moving through. I read instead of listen, so it’s cozy — one of my favorite descriptors for life. But soon, I felt the nag again to get outside and go for a walk. I’m a walk fiend when it’s not a gym day, or even when it is. Being outside in nature is a key to existence in my mind. Unless sight, sound, smell, and touch were taken from me, I’d always want to find a way to at least see the outdoors, even if I couldn’t touch, smell, or hear it. It’s my happy place.

Then I remembered just that. A walk would be a happy thing for me, and every time I state this fact, I have a much easier time finding time to get outside, or in the case of a frigid snowstorm, finding the right gear.

So, I perused my various coats, hats, gloves, and scarves. I chose each purposefully — the waterproof shell, the hat with a brim, the gloves that allow me to easily fast-forward through my Spotify playlist as I trek-dance through the snowy weather.

Once geared up, I opened the door, and wouldn’t you know it. It wasn’t as cold as I’d thought. Instead, it was far more spectacular. It was just as it should be: me outside among the crows and squirrels, the pretty white branches and furry gray sky, the hawks, deer, and my beloved foxes.

Some people walk extra-long and extra far, crossing countries and continents. That might be admirable if you have the time and responsibilities that can be put on hold. I can only imagine all the nature you’d see on those lengthy walks — the people you’d meet, the animals you’d never see otherwise, all the quiet contemplation. I can only imagine how much time there’d be for the other kind of thinking — the repetitive negative swirl — and how this wouldn’t be ideal if this were your tendency. It used to be mine.

I used to be an ace at this negative thinking, or rumination. I spent a nice chunk of my life on it, too, especially while walking and running. It was a ritual of mine. Put the shoes on, grab the water bottle, head out, get settled into a steady pace, and wham — start ruminating.

I’d do it for half my walk, or longer. There I’d be, outside in beauty, fortunate not only to have the time to walk and the safe space in which to do it, but the willingness to do so, and yet I’d squander it on a mind that spiraled instead of admired.

Recently, I drove two hours to stand in the cold for four hours, waiting to see a group of Buddhist monks pass me by for no longer than one minute, then drove the two hours back home. Eight hours for a one-minute prize. I’m not Buddhist, but one of my writing buddies put the feeler out there in one of our Zoom calls. I raised my ever-willing hand that tends to sign up for things, and soon it was on the calendar. We’d meet halfway to see the monks who were walking for peace from Texas to Washington, DC.

These monks made the news for months as they traveled across the country in the name of peace. Of course, there’d be no peace just because of their walk. A small gaggle of monks walking on the side of the road for a considerable distance would change nothing in the world, or I really doubt it. However, it changed me, just a little, and after seeing them, I suspect this was the point.

Their walking brought awareness to the progress I’ve made over the last couple of years with my rumination. It got me to notice what I hadn’t yet: I’ve shifted my spiral-thinking in the great outdoors to a more unencumbered awareness. When I imagined what those monks must be experiencing as they walked, it occurred to me that my walks have turned into something not too far afield.

To move my mind away from rumination was a project I kept coming back to. It wasn’t a one-and-done thing. I built awareness around my tendency, and continued to brainstorm for strategies. And it worked. I have, in fact, moved from rumination to peace.

It took some experimentation. At first, I tried to focus on my breath. This lasted a good five to six breaths. Okay, fine. What else did I have in my bag of tricks? I moved to noticing my pace and footsteps, the feeling of my body as it walked. This was more helpful because it was obvious to me. But what really helped me to drop the rumination was the very thing I loved most about my walks — the scenery, the feeling of the air, and the movement through a physical space. Everything in my mind fell to a hush when I tried this trick.

It was hard to believe, but over time, I really did shift my walks from ruminative to contemplative or being present. I went from one habit of mind to another. Today, I’ll get outside — rain, snow, cold, heat — because it gives rather than takes. I come home full but simplified. The crows, hawks, foxes, and deer like this new me. I’m a much better member of the outdoor club. I know when they stand there and look at me, they’re thinking, “There she is again. Gotta love her.”

I love them, too.

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Have a nice rest of your week, friends.