The Way of Walking

Why walk 80 miles over six days?

On one level I did it for the challenge. But also I have learned that walking, and walking longer distances, removes me from ways that are not life-giving and reshapes my story. Take for instance overthinking - when thoughts become stuck on repeat and there doesn’t seem to be a solution or way out.  Why won’t a broken relationship heal? Why won’t that person change their political views?  How will life ever change considering the circumstances? Such questions, along with associated emotions, regrets, and what-if’s, can flood my thoughts.

However, when I get outside and am present in nature and street scapes, something happens not only to my body, but to my mind. As I place one foot in front of the other, thoughts slow down to the rhythm of my steps. My breathing becomes deeper. I see, hear, touch, smell, and even taste the physical world around me. A new peace comes. Often I enter a place of humility in which I am more open to creative ways to engage with the problems, and if not, to let them go.

This summer I found myself yet again in one of these deep life ruts. I had been trying to close some chapters of my life, but the overthinking continued.  Fortunately, I was already planning to participate in the Camino de Sonoma - a relatively new pilgrimage path in Sonoma, California (caminodesonoma.com).  Other pilgrim guides within InterVarsity were going on this journey and I wanted to be part of this contemplative learning community. I had never walked so many miles in such a short time, but the landscape, the community, and my own need to walk and heal drew me to join.

The path began at the Sonoma Mission - the furthest west that the Western Church started a mission - and ended at the Russian Orthodox church in Fort Ross - the furthest east that the Eastern Church founded a congregation. One could say that during the 1820s when both of these churches were started this area represented the “ends of the earth” as expressed in Acts 1:8. However, we weren’t following a simple story of people witnessing to Jesus’ life in this land. Like the thoughts running through my head, the narrative of this land had chapters to end and ruts out of which to climb.

Along the eighty miles between these two sites we heard layers of stories of grief and hope. These included stories of conflicts and colonization between the Christian church and the Indigenous nations; stories of how the land has been used and abused; and slow healing occurring as people have started to come together and listen to one another in these places. The path took us through suburbs, vineyards, subdivisions, state parks, roadways, redwood groves, along creeks and rivers, and eventually to the Pacific Ocean. Though I may not have related directly to any of these stories at the beginning, hearing them, along with those of my fellow pilgrims and the action of the walking, gradually interrupted the thoughts on repeat in my head and opened me to new narratives.

We started in the park of Sonoma’s town square. Walking barefoot on the grass and sidewalks, in the midst of rose gardens and under trees, I slowed down to recognize where I was in body, mind, and soul. I wasn’t quite sure about my story at that moment, but I was ready to walk. After receiving a blessing from our guide, I joined the group and crossed to the Sonoma Mission.

In those first hours and days, I readily walked beside other pilgrims asking about their stories and sharing mine. In this liminal - threshold time - conversations quickly went deep. Side by side we looked ahead to the next steps, wondering how we would make the final miles, especially at the end of the days. But we also stayed present with the narratives we were carrying with us and shared about families, ministries, dreams, and broken hearts.

Personally, my mind was still racing with responsibilities in ministry, plans with friends, even some deep griefs. In my usual way, I was trying to order these thoughts. To control them. To gain an answer and come up with a plan of attack. The ruts were still there. In the areas of grief, I found myself going back again and again to stories of lost opportunities and how I would respond differently now. Or I would find myself ruminating about the life someone else was living. I wanted to be the one getting married. I wanted to be the one with the book coming out. During this walk answers did not come. My story did not change. Instead tears came and frustration started to rise.

In addition to those of my companions and my thoughts, I heard the voices of two authors whose books I was reading:  How to Inhabit Time by James K. A. Smith and Between the Listening and the Telling by Mark Yaconelli. Some of their words beat in rhythm with my feet. Smith’s words spoke to me of being able to move out of my thinking ruts and to come alive in the moments.

“To inhabit time with eyes wide open, hands outstretched, not to grasp, but to receive, enjoy, and let go.  Sometimes knowing this won’t last forever compels us to hold hands in the present” (100)

and

“to know how to dance in divine time and walk like a human being is a marvel” (101).

Then I resonated with Yaconelli’s emphasis on how stories shape our lives

“ if we change the stories we live by, quite possibly we change our lives - each of us needs a story to anchor our lives (157).

Yet, in both the conversations with my companions and in reading these authors, I wasn’t quite sure how I was to get out of this overthinking and trust God to redeem the past and to shape the future. How was I going to get to a place of dancing? How was I going to find a better anchor in my life?

As the week went on, I started to fall back and walk alone. I wanted to take in the landscape around me. Breathe in the cleansing air of redwood groves and ocean as well as gaze in awe at the their beauty. But, more importantly, the Spirit was inviting me to listen more deeply to what was happening inside of me. On the fifth day, after walking in physical pain for several hours; staring in awe of the beauty of the redwood grove we were walking through; and grieving over lost relationships my thoughts started to slow down. I heard the Spirit nudge: “Jamie, you’ve been sitting in stories that are not yours. This is not the good way. This shuts down the story that I, the living God, have for your life. Live your story.”

I didn’t want to hear that. I wanted to be vindicated about the story I was trying to write and the characters I wanted to include. I wanted to be pitied. I didn’t want to let go of these chapters in my life. But slowly, as I continued to walk and take in the surrounding creation, a renewed spirit came. I miss so much in life as I ruminate on what isn’t mine and overthink my perceived losses. Over the miles I became humbled. Everything did not change. I didn’t suddenly have the new story outlined. I didn’t even have the next paragraph or sentence. But, I was open to hearing the Spirit’s proddings.

On the final day, I walked north following Highway 1 and other coastal trails. The view of the ocean was always to the left. The sound of the surf encompassed me. The breeze seemed to cleanse not only the air but also my breath and thoughts. Here was an incarnate experience of the expansiveness of God’s story. It took eighty miles and over 100,000 steps, but once again walking moved me out of my head into new possibilities. Maybe I didn’t have the next paragraph, but I had a clearer vision of the One who is inviting me to live a renewed story. And he was saying, “I have you. I love you. I can do more than you can imagine. Follow me into this greater story.  We’ll write it together . . .”