“When we no longer know what to do, we end up with real work, and when we no longer know which way to go, we may have begun our real journey.” ~ Wendell Berry
As I was watching TV one night, something on the screen made me all set aside and still. It was a scene in which the main character, a man who truly loves his daughter, is unable to change what is happening to her. So he went out into the wilderness as a kind of prayer.
I put the remote down and didn’t pick it up again. Not because what the man did was foreign to me, but because it was familiar, deep in my bones. I’ve been doing that all my life without giving it a name.
The first time was when I was in my 20s. I just met the woman I was going to marry and am still married to. She lived in an apartment off the Sawgrass Expressway, maybe seven or eight miles from where I was living at the time.
I could have driven. I had a car. But I wanted to see her, and something inside me needed to travel on foot that day.
I climbed up University Drive and kept going, past a strip mall and a traffic light, until I came to the side of the highway. By the time I reached her front door, my legs were tired and my shirt was soaking wet. But I was happy.
On the way there, I was pushing myself and holding back. She deserved it. Somewhere along the way, I learned that kindness often has to pass through the body before it can be transmitted to others.
My parents live about eight miles away, but I’ve walked the property countless times. Every step I take, passing by the street corners and gardens where I grew up, has some effect on my condition. By the time I get there, I’m fully present and grateful for the gift of being able to see them.
Sometimes the person I’m trying to get close to is my son. He’s been wearing the number 5 in sports since he was a little boy for reasons I can’t explain. I walked the few miles back to the baseball card shop when I learned that Brooks Robinson, a Hall of Fame third baseman whom I respect for both his talent and his kindness, also wore that number. I wanted my son to feel that his number was worn by someone worthy of respect and that traveling with it was the right thing to do.
Once, when I was stressed out at work and didn’t know what to do, I hiked 14 miles to the beach. I didn’t tell anyone. I just kept walking until the street ended, the ocean appeared in front of me, and the tension in my shoulders eased.
Long walks have always been like that for me. A way of communicating something from the inside to the outside. How to communicate with your whole body that this challenge, person, moment is important enough to be respected.
A few years ago, my daughter was going through a difficult time. My wife and I tried everything we could think of to support her. But I sat there with that helpless feeling that every parent knows and would wish they could replace their child with.
Sometimes all you can do is love someone from afar and hope it somehow reaches them. I’ve done everything else I can think of, but I’ve come up empty. So I laced up my sneakers and headed west.
I passed bus stops and plazas, past empty lots where the city began to thin, past points where sidewalks ended and became rough land. It was cold for South Florida, probably in the low 40s, but I kept walking. I continued on until the last gas station was behind me, but beyond that there was nothing but a vacant lot.
I stopped in front of a fence that marked the beginning of the Everglades. The saws stretched to the horizon, and the sky was endless. No one there knew my name or cared what I was worried about.
My legs hurt. My lungs were working hard. By the time I got there I was exhausted.
Standing on the edge of that wilderness, I allowed myself to ask her to be okay in the most raw, vulnerable way I could. I stood there for a long time. Then I turned around and went home.
When we returned, the temperature had dropped to the 30s. When I went to the backyard and entered the pool, the cold hit me like a wall. I was in that water and I was thinking about her the whole time.
It was a small act, and perhaps a stupid one. But it felt like the truest thing I could do.
I don’t know if it helped her, but she’s better now. I don’t think the roads or cold water have anything to do with it. But now I think I understand what I’ve been doing outside all these years.
When love is deep enough, it accumulates within you and you need to move it. Some people talk to friends, some people write, and some people just hang in there until things get better. I pour myself into the direction of my beloved until I am exhausted.
I learned that no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t always change things for the people I care about. Acceptance requires time and distance. Walking is a way to grapple with what I can’t resolve, allowing me to be more fully available and grounded for those I care about.
I think it was probably the scene on TV that night that moved me so deeply. Because I’ve been doing what that guy did long before I saw him do it on screen. Neither of us had a better option and neither of us needed it. He went to the wilderness for my daughter, and I walked to the edge of the Everglades for her.
We don’t always have the answers, but the love is there and we find a way to keep expressing it anyway.
I think that might be the most human thing to do.
About Daniel H. Shapiro
Dr. Daniel H. Shapiro is a keynote speaker, author, and mentor. He is passionate about human connection and the stories we carry with us. For more information about his book, The 5 Practices of the Caring Mentor, or his mentoring and speaking services, check out yourinherentgoodness.com.
