“Where there once was
solidity to every step,
there is suddenly a mysterious uncertainty…”
By
Patrick J. Walsh
As
I wander my usual way through the paths and paved roads of the park near my
home, wondering at the struggles of others, I have new appreciation for the
majesty and mechanics of even the briefest walk in the park.
So
much goes into the simple act of walking. There is the coordination of mind and
body, the movement of muscle and bone, the transfer of weight from limb to
limb, and overall the delicate play of balance on the carriage — all meshed in
the movement of each step, and in one step after another, cascading into the
joyous mystery of motion.
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| © Patrick J. Walsh |
They walk with me as I choose my
steps; and I am
more attentive to the best of all that is around me...
And
my walk in turn gives rise to so many mysteries whose shape and structure are
discernible only in relation to the orientation of my movements.
A
rough texture, for example, cool to the touch: with the crunch of brittle
leaves beneath my boots, it is likely the bark of a tree; with pavement beneath
me, it is more likely the ragged edge of a stone at the side of the road, or
gravel; on the grass close by the pond, the rough grasp of reeds that adorn the
sodden expanse of the marshland.
Lately
my time in the park has been interspersed with time spent in the company of
those who, as the result of injury or illness, must cope with frailties that
make it difficult to walk freely and easily.
For
them, the process of placing one’s steps is an often treacherous exercise in
limiting the yaw of each forward motion, from hip to foot, across the entire
breadth of every stride. In such a state, a stroll along the uneven paths I ply
from time to time in the woods around the park would be a vestibular nightmare.
In
that context, a walk in the park would be anything but that which is implied by
the colloquialism to which it lends its name.
Subject
to the mercurial betrayal of balance on the merest whim of the landscape, or in
reaction to the unanticipated distraction of animal or bird or aqua fauna, the
diminished control over one’s
movement must seem an enigma beyond easy reckoning.
Where
there once was solidity to every step, there is suddenly a mysterious
uncertainty; where there was previously ease of movement, there is a heavy
sensation of strangeness…
As
I walk in the park, I am normally unaware of the mechanics of my own
locomotion. Fascinated with the environment around me or taken up with some
encounter of one sort or another with the creatures or setting of the place, I
move along my way without thinking of the gift of ease of motion.
Even
when I trek upward along some sloping trail in the woods, I am aware more of
the effect that the grade has on the experience of whatever it is that I am
seeing and hearing, rather than the degree of difficulty involved in the
journey.
But
today, I wonder at the struggles of others. They walk with me as I choose my
steps; and I am more attentive to the best of all that is around me, that I
might share it all with those who cannot experience it first-hand.
Maybe,
in that effort, there is some miracle of transference that might make their
difficulties less burdensome, and maybe set their sights on walks in realms
more mystic than mysterious.
©
Patrick J. Walsh
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