Walking as a metaphor: One foot in front of the other will get you where you need to go.

On Folegandros

Walking

into water ribbed with turquois and cobalt blue

along winding rocky paths, through narrow streets pressed between white washed houses splashed with color,

up and down hills towering so high above the sea it feels as if they might tumble in

 Wearing

Hoka running shoes

flip flops

leather sandals

bare feet.

Moving

gliding

pounding pavement

navigating path of slippery stones into the sea

dancing and singing as cars race past

elevating when possible

Where are you going? Walking in circles. Islands contain a series of circles. Zig zagging terraced hills marked by low stones walls. Perimeters. Hidden coves. Uneven everything. Horizons compromised of various blue hues and neighboring islands (more circles within circles).

While walking I’m thinking. Inhaling (fragrant flowers, sea air, food cooking). Seeing what’s around me (I discovered a lingering cluster of Poppies tucked behind a low wall). Talking to ghosts as the past and present collide and combust (sometimes tears stream down my cheeks and I use my t-shirt to wipe them). Pausing to consider views so beautiful I feel part of a secret world.

Walking is an unfolding. No speeding beyond your capacity. People pass me by and I do the same.

Ask why rush? Is time infinite, how do you measure its contradictory density or the way it flies by? What is time anyway? A towering monument etched with memories? How does walking allow for a self-propelled pace not driven by a machine (cars, buses, planes, trains). Feet, limbs, arms moving; senses ignited. Walking situates us in time of all kinds--past, present, and future (dreams, apprehensions).

 After weeks of primarily walking and not driving (though I was driven by friends or a bus driver), I feel time differently. That happens when the primary mode of transportation is however fast or far your feet will take you. It gets pretty basic--I plan shopping based on what I can carry from the shop to where I live, figuring how long it will take me to walk to my friend’s house 20 minutes outside the village, and what shoes I need to wear depending on where I’m going or for what reason (walking up the hill to a dinner party in sandals with heels will not work).

Walking is a metaphor for life. When I feel stuck and uninspired to dislodge myself, my mantra has always been to put one foot in front of the other and my heart will catch up—eventually and hopefully. It means I have to rely on faith—in myself and the universe—even when neither feel plausible. Walk to the studio and get started on a piece. Those 50 steps can feel like scaling a steep canyon. The final step that places you where you want and need to be is no more important than the ones before, when you felt as if you were defying gravity just to get up and out of the house. You pash through one threshold, and know there will always be others.

 We are never done walking. Growing. Seeking. Facing adversity. Moving between loss and gain.

Move your feet and your heart will follow.