Every day starts with a walk.
When I first moved to this delicious farm house on an old dirt road surrounded by hay fields and forest, I had thoughts of running. Long miles following the creek bed and the sounds of birds hidden between green tree tops… How lovely would that be? But I knew myself better–I knew I would never commit to running. I’m just not in the shape to do so and I don’t (yet?) have the interest in pushing through the pain and exhaustion to make it happen. After Day 1 or Day 2 (but certainly by Day 3) I would be huffing back to the house with a pain in my side and miserable grimace on my face. I knew running would be over before I even got started; but I still wanted to get outside in the morning air. I still wanted to move my body and start a new daily routine.
What I could do was walk. And so I have. Every day.
It’s not anything glamorous or impressive; I haven’t marked the distance or timed my pace. But it’s not about that. My time is logged in footprints and deep breaths, ah-ha! moments and appreciation for the beauty of my neighborhood.
I haven’t quit yet and I’m proud of myself for that. Maybe one of these days I’ll have walked so much that I’ll be ready to run. But I’m not planning on it. What I know for sure is that tomorrow I’ll look forward to getting out of bed, putting on my shoes, and hitting the road, waving at the cars driving past.