Like ibn Battuta, I have come a full circle.
He, a Tangier lawyer, having set off on the Hajj, once he got moving, discovered he could not stop until he has ranged the entire dar-al-Islam; and then, having done so, returned home, settled, and never left Tangier again. Truly, you don’t know how to treasure what you have until you have compared.
My place of origin is not a city, but the state of solitary walking. I did a lot of it from ages 12 to 20, until women entered my life and muscled in on my walks; and then, to replace their bother, the dog.
Here is the chief life lesson of my last 40 years: never walk in company.
Not even with a dog. The dog will distract you. He will come close to you, panting loudly and seeking attention just as you become totally absorbed in the movement and sound of aspen leaves fluttering at distant treetops. And he will frighten forest creatures into silence.
Further, when walking, walk quietly — avoid noisy clothes or shoes. By doing so you will discover how much hidden life is about you: rustlings, dartings, flutterings, chirpings, scratchings, whistlings, hissings. All this comes to deathly stillness when a dog comes around. Don’t bring one.
Then there are the myriad sounds of wind, water and weather. Unless you are undistracted, you won’t notice.
Finally, walk slowly. Perhaps because walking fast obliges you to pay attention to your movement, where you place your feet; or perhaps it puts a purpose into your stride: you are going somewhere, there is a goal, a place to reach or a distance to cover; for whatever reason, the way you think changes with the speed of walking. For me, solitary walking is best used for deep, slow thinking. And this requires slow walking.
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I have let all my correspondence lapse and it has died a natural death. All those lines of communication only existed because I fed them: I had things to say — books, films, paintings, small epiphanies — and when I said them, my saying so elicited a response. Invariably, the response was a come down. Mostly one word (“great!” seemed popular), at best a short phrase to say about as much. Alice Munro’s short stories illustrate why: mostly, there is nothing inside people. Where there is nothing, nothing can be shared.
When I stopped feeding these useless threads, they all fell silent remarkably quickly.
Now I can concentrate on my solitary walks.
Oltre Mare 