Get Up and Walk

(Listening to Spotify as I write, this song by Lady Antebellum “Run to you”  was given to me with perfect timing!  I insert “walk” when they sing, “run”.  It’s more my style.)

Hearing the call, I ignored it.  My day was too busy, too full.  I was too tired.  My back ached.  My knees or hip hurt.  It was raining.  It was too hot.   A body at rest stays at rest. . and I did.

“Get up and walk”

I felt crippled by circumstance.  I wasn’t in charge of my own life.  I gave my power away.  I had nothing left but none of that was really true.  I wanted excuses.

“Get up and walk.”

Summer lies before me, pure gift.  No more excuses.  I have the time.  I am in charge.  It’s up to me to rise to the occasion.  I set the alarm.  I wake before it goes off.  I tell myself, “Today is a good day.”

My daughter meets me in the kitchen.  We say our good mornings.  Before I say any more she tells me,  “You and I are going on a walk today.”

She worries about me. . . us.  Her father and I aren’t young.  We aren’t in good shape.  This isn’t fair to our kids.  My thinking has been too short-sighted, too self-serving.  There is more at stake.  I smile and tell her my plans for the morning.  She is pleased.  She decides to run later if I don’t mind.  I don’t.  I love walking with some one or alone.  I forgot how much.

“Get up and walk.”

And I do.

My feet hurt.  I think about something else.  The rain has stopped just for me.  The world smells fresh and new. . . well most of the time.  I walk past the wild evergreen bushes and smell the familiar tang of a now-dead animal.  The world can be full of opposites.  I choose where I place my attention, my intention.

I swing my arms.  The zipper of my sweatshirt hits my hand.  I make adjustments.  I push the button for the walk signal.  I cross the intersection and begin walking on the trail before I realize that I have come that far.  My thoughts begin to dance with the endorphins.  Slowly at first, we waltz together, in steady gentle rhythms.  I become aware of my breathing.

“Get up and walk.”

The words start to play in my head.  I repeat them reverently, silently.  I become aware of my breathing.  I take deeper breaths.  I turn my face up to the promise of sun.  It’s behind those clouds.  I can feel it.

“Get up and walk.”

“Get up and dance,”  I whisper back.   No longer a waltz, my thoughts are doing a passionate tango with those wonderful endorphins.  Could this be love?  Love of the walk, the outdoors, myself, God, humanity?

I forgot how good this feels.  I think about what to write.  My thoughts swirl freely, easily.  Inspiration is all around me.  I just have to reach out and hold on.

I find the perfect mid-way point and walk steadily, quickly back home.  A shower feels great.  I greet my husband with a smile and encouragement.  That would have been impossible without the magic of my walk. My example spurs him into taking a bike ride.

“Get up and walk.”

I shout without saying a word.

A body in motion, stays in motion. . .


I am the person behind the words printed here. I write because my heart will not allow me the option of NOT writing. It has taken me half a life time to discover this basic truth, but now that I have, writing is as natural as breathing. This is where my breath takes the form of words.


I am reading

The Miracle Morning: The Not-So-Obvious Secret Guaranteed to Transform Your Life (Before 8AM)
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