My Walking Heritage

​My Grandma was walker.
No matter the season or weather,
she was called to get outside and walk…
for her body, her mind, and her spirit.
 
My Mom was and still is a walker.
In her working days, she walked there…
sometimes out of necessity,
sometimes for the exercise,
but most often (as a mother of three children
and a teacher of preschool children),
she walked as a measure of self-care and
self-preservation.
She, too, found new life in the fresh air,
in the bird songs, and the neighbor’s greetings.
When someone she loved was going through
a trying time,
her kind suggestion of taking a walk
would often wondrously help to ease the load.
 
My Grandma and my Mom walked
to the hospital
when my Mom went into labor with me.
It was late, on a cold December night
when walking together seemed the
most natural thing to do.
I guess you could say, that was our first
big walk together… three generations of
women finding strength and love under the stars
in the cold night air.
 
And this morning, on my winter walk
all these many years later,
I find we are still walking together.
My Grandmother is on the other side, but her essence
shines through with the morning sun.
My Mom now walks a bit slower and often with her
arm linked in mine or Dad’s,
but she still finds great release
in taking a walk where something can shift,
something can give way that frees her.
 
And I give thanks as I walk with my eyes
to the mountains
and my heart to the sky
that the walking wisdom of my Grandma
became my mother’s
so it could
become mine as well.
 
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Walking Home from Oak-Head
By Mary Oliver
 
There is something
about the snow-laden sky
in winter
in the late afternoon
 
that brings to the heart elation
and the lovely meaninglessness
of time.
Whenever I get home - whenever -
 
somebody loves me there.
Meanwhile
I stand in the same dark peace
as any pine tree,
 
or wander on slowly
like the still unhurried wind,
waiting,
as for a gift,
 
for the snow to begin
which it does
at first casually,
then, irrepressibly.
 
Wherever else I live -
in music, in words,
in the fires of the heart,
I abide just as deeply
 
in this nameless, indivisible place,
this world,
which is falling apart now,
which is white and wild,
which is faithful beyond all our expressions of faith,
our deepest prayers.
Don't worry, sooner or later I'll be home.
Red-cheeked from the roused wind,
 
I'll stand in the doorway
stamping my boots and slapping my hands,
my shoulders
covered with stars.