They say laughter is the best medicine. They say facing the sun washes away all fear. They also say that love is the answer, that forgiveness heals, and that wondering is what keeps us awake – in spirit as in mind.
All of this, undeniably, is true.
Yet there is one unsung activity – deserving of as much attention, underestimated in its capacity to move, and connected to our essence as humans from the day we took a stand – which we engage in always yet are quick to ignore.
Walking.
Not figuratively. Literally.
Walking.
An activity considered triumphant only in the days when we take our first steps as toddlers, and otherwise largely celebrated solely for its symbolic meaning. Yet strip it of its ceremonialism, figurativeness, and physicality, and you are left with a seemingly ordinary activity of extraordinary power.
Whenever you are angry or anxious, flustered or frustrated, distraught or distressed, take a walk. When you’re running out of ideas, when you’ve hit the dead end, when the problem seems impossible, take a walk. When the thoughts won’t leave your head, when you regret that thing you said, when you’d rather be alone instead, take a walk.
When in doubt, to clear your mind, to keep your mind, or just to restart, go for a walk.
That’s exactly what Aida and I did today. Having spent the entire day executing meticulous trips – choreographed and being rehearsed for the 23rd day now – from the bedroom to the living room, to the kitchen to the bathroom, from the Northeast side of the apartment to the Southwest side of the apartment, we decided that it was time to expand the horizons of our adventure and set foot in the great unknown of outside.
We went for a walk.
Across Brand Boulevard on Colorado Street, continuing on and right past a man making his way in the opposite direction, making sure to social-distance ourselves as much out of courtesy for him and respect for his health as for the protection of our own. Aida’s arm threading the loop made by mine, we let the moonshine shower sunlight on our idle conversation, visiting the episodes of daily life that had been left out from our latest dinner chats and revisiting the favorite episodes that had not. With each stride of nighttime peace that we take, the past seems that much more distant, the future not any closer, but the now ever more present.
We ignore the obnoxious blue Mustang driver who is revving his (her?) engine on Kenwood Street, just to step on the brakes again when he reaches Broadway in three seconds; his lifelong dream of empty Glendale streets is coming true. I wish that he, too, would park his car and take a walk, for his own good.
It doesn’t matter, really. When you walk, the world stops. Whether it’s alone or with someone, when you resort to possibly the first great achievement of your days after letting out the cry of your life, and you effortlessly do it again and again, you relive memories old and new. You connect with yourself, old and new. You empty your mind. You restore your soul.
It was back at the corner of Brand Boulevard and Colorado Street, while we waited for the pedestrian walksign to go from red to white (yeah, it’s actually white if you pay attention), a gray outdated Toyota pulled up and stopped at the red light next to us. The sole occupant of the car was a young African American, probably in his early thirties like myself. And while his car windows were rolled up and I couldn’t hear a thing, I could tell from his moves that he was dancing to some funky beats – maybe James Brown or Kool and the Gang.
I couldn’t help it. My breakdancing instincts ignited, I started doing my uprock skit – the one I used to perform when our troupe put on breakdance battles. The streetlight turned green, and he started to drive off… but just as he passed us, he looked above his right shoulder and noticed me dancing. His eyes lit up and his face beamed, if only for a split-second, before he turned to look straight in front of him again, hands on his wheel and dancing no more.
But even for that fleeting moment that would never repeat itself again, knowing that our paths would never cross again, having exchanged no spoken word, I knew that I had made his day, and he knew that he had made mine.
He went on his path. Aida and I continued to walk our own, realizing halfway that the pedestrian walksign was still red.
Chronicles 