Walk 16: Sam, the Buddhist by David W. Berner

HEALTH ISSUE | APRIL 2021

It is an odd thing, a woman and a man walking, not side-by-side, but apart, together but separately. He is in front, marching at a particular pace. And she, ten steps behind, hunched and scuttling, as if trying to catch up yet purposely keeping a distance. Are they together or apart? This is the second time I’ve seen this couple. The fi rst was from my window at the dinner table the other night. Now, it is Sam and me who see them on a sunny Sunday, and we are nearly crossing their path.

“It’s strange,” I whisper to Sam. Our hike around the neighborhood this late morning has been peaceful and quiet, the kind of walk where you are keenly aware of your strides, your easy pace. But now Sam is out of rhythm as she pauses to watch this couple, this peculiar pair, walking in some offbeat ritual of obedience.

Maybe I am being judgmental. What do I know of them? Maybe he is simply a faster walker. Maybe he takes longer strides. Maybe her legs are short. Maybe she has a bad knee. Maybe he was once a daily jogger, a track star in his younger days, and can’t help himself.

“They’re like Mormons,” I whisper to Sam as the couple takes the crosswalk at the corner.

That’s likely not a proper comparison. I’m simply thinking about cultures where men take a superior role,

where women are dutiful, submissive. To be fair, that’s not true of all denominations within the Mormon Church, only the ultra-patriarchal systems of the fundamentalists. Still, it comes to mind.

The man is dressed in jeans, a red golf shirt, and white sneakers. She has long hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her shorts are navy blue; her loose-fi tting top is sleeveless. She, too, wears white sneakers. Neither would ever stand out for any other reason than this odd straight-in-line, purposeful, almost ceremonial walk.

They speak no words. They do not acknowledge one another. We watch them, follow them, for over two blocks and there are no smiles, communicative gestures, and no deviations from the steady pace. This is not a walk for pleasure. It can’t be. This is a walk for another reason, a walk to prove something, to gain something, to feel accomplishment, to feel worthy, to feel somehow better about themselves.

The Buddhist monk, Thich Nhat Hanh speaks of meditative walking, pilgrim meditation, he calls it, and how in this style of travel we are always arriving, our home is in the present moment. I like to think, although it is not easy, that my walks with Sam are in this tradition.

The goal is to be keenly cognizant of your stride, and to smile, even if it is forced, as it is believed that you will be happy if you act happy. I try to do that in some fashion most days. I think Sam does, too. By traveling this way, you are honoring the Earth, the monk tells us, for it is what balances your steps. Enjoy yourself, he tutors, and use the time to reacquaint yourself with yourself. I wonder if this couple has ever considered this.

There’s a quote I love from the writer and teacher, Paul Coelho, the author of The Pilgrimage, his account of his walk along the road to Santiago in Spain. It comes from the pages of a subsequent book, but it could easily have been taken from text of The Pilgrimage:

I wonder if this couple knows of Paulo Coelho.

Sam and I stand at the corner where the couple had crossed, and we see them now march up the slightly elevated sidewalk. He remains in the lead. She behind. And I remain intrigued by this walk of un-togetherness. But then I wonder: Do they recognize or respect or even consider the purity of a good walk? The couple appears to be on a mission, a militaristic hike with a less than mystical goal. Theirs is not a pilgrimage. When I walk— with or without Sam—I am only occasionally successful in meeting the mindfulness I set out to discover.

It comes only in miniature spurts, little moments. But Sam, she is different. Sam is always in the present. She is always putting paws to the pavement and honoring the ground she walks on, enjoying herself through the art of a good walk. Her sniffs, her prances, her total awareness are in each step. She is better at this than I, than any of us, and apparently far better than the

HEALTH ISSUE | APRIL 2021

couple we’ve been observing. Sam is a natural.

She gets it, understands walking’s essential spirit. Like it must have been for our human ancestors hundreds of years before cars, trains, planes, and buses, Sam knows how to walk. And although much of those earlier human walks were utilitarian—simply a reason to move from point A to point B with a focus on destination— walking was also considered a pastime, a way to socialize, to unwind, to rediscover the unhurried world. Sam does this every day. She does not need to get from point A to B to fi nd food, to catch a commuter train, or pick up the mail at the end of a long driveway. Why does she want to walk as much as she can? It makes her happy. Why do I walk Sam? It makes me happy. go Writers Association, and the Eric Hoffer Book Awards. He has been the Writer-in-Residence at the Jack Kerouac Project in Florida and at the Ernest Hemingway Birthplace Home in Illinois. He lives outside of Chicago.

Sam and I step south from the corner as the couple treks over the crest of the hill and disappears. Sam quickly forgets them and their detached, unchanging gait, for she is now tugging toward the large elm tree in the parkway where she can catch a scent at its base and return to her pilgrim’s walk, the one the Buddhist monk talks about, a monk about which Sam knows nothing, a monk whose philosophies Sam will never study or contemplate. But this is of no matter because Sam is a far more natural traveler of the world, the most mindful monk I know, a teacher of the perfect way to move in the world.

David W. Berner is the author of several books of memoir and fi ction. His books have been honored by the Society of Midland Authors, the Chica-