I have been reading a lot this summer.
Doing it the old fashioned way,
with a book in my hand,
and pages that turn.
I have been reading a lot about walking.
Something I have done very little of in the past month.
It seems I have an as yet undiagnosed condition in my right foot that is very painful and has gone from bad to worse.
There is a doctor in my future.
One of the walking books is fiction.
A series of five.
It is about a man walking from Seattle to Key West.
The other is non fiction.
A single volume.
About a young woman who sets out to walk the Pacific Crest Trail
from the Mojave Desert in CA to the Oregon/Washington border.
In both cases the walking is cathartic.
Initiated to deal with the pain of a loss so great it has left the characters incapacitated by grief.
And so they walk.
I can't imagine such pain.
I don't want to imagine such pain.
And yet I too want to walk,
even if it is just four miles every morning in the company of my peeps.
Because when I put one foot in front of the other and push myself to move forward
I know I am alive and well
And besides, I miss all that girl talk.
The Walk Series by Richard Evans
Wild by Cheryl Strayed