Walk with me
I laughed when someone recently told me that what I’m doing is radical. But they may be right.
I wasn’t able to go for a walk outside just a few short years ago.
In fact, I couldn’t walk very well at all for a long time after being diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis.
Many joints in my feet, ankles, knees, fingers, wrists, elbows, shoulders and neck were swollen, stiff and extremely painful to move.
My balance, range of motion, strength and endurance all seemed to disappear overnight.
Regulating my body temperature was a constant challenge. No amount of layers, blankets, heaters or cuddly cats could prevent even a slight breeze from turning me into a block of ice.
In a matter of months, I went from hiking around Iceland to only being able to shuffle my feet and needing someone or something to support me taking 10 steps from the couch to the kitchen. Flights of stairs, a simple curb and icy, uneven surfaces were dangerous for me to navigate on my own.
It took a lot of:
time (years)
energy (many people living with autoimmune diseases, or chronic illnesses, don’t have a lot of that to spare)
effort (physical, mental and emotional), and
resources (money, the right doctors, pharmaceutical drugs, insurance, access to an osteopath, a physical therapist, a massage therapist, assistive devices, workshops, books, friends and family)
to be able to do what I can today.
And never knowing when, or if, I may experience even a fraction of the pain I did when I was first diagnosed is a ridiculous mental/physical/emotional/spiritual rollercoaster to endure.
It’s an ongoing and lifelong journey and I’m doing my best to stay as far away from “my worst” as I’m capable of.
And while I was at my worst, I lived vicariously through pictures of nature on Instagram.
Being separated from the outdoors only made me have a deeper appreciation for:
the colour of the wild mushrooms someone discovered during their hike.
the squeals of delight from someone else wading into the cold lake for their morning swim.
the contrast between the bright green moss against the unimpressive rock it’s sitting on.
the intricate designs and patterns found on tree bark.
the various shades of red found on a cardinal.
Now, years later, when I’m more mobile and live in an area where I can get outside while staying a safe distance away from other people, I began to take more walks with my menfolk.
At first, I went walking to help my anxiety at the beginning of the pandemic. It distracted me from doom scrolling.
It was also a way for me to connect with my kid. He’d tell me about his latest interests and we’d talk about how he was feeling. Plus I got to expend some energy, listen to the birds sing and enjoy the fresh air.
These walks of ours still help us break up the monotony of working and learning from home.
Then while friends were dealing with their own autoimmune flares that kept them bed-bound, I began to share some pictures from my walks in my Instagram story for their enjoyment.
Then I started to craft mini-stories to amuse myself. And it made us all feel like we got to take a walk together.
It was a way for us to still feel connected even though we needed to remain far apart.
And some other people began to notice them too. Other friends, distant acquaintances, even strangers began showing up to watch my stories. These walks have helped me connect with people from around the world, discover new obsessions, and be delighted when someone takes the time to share something they love with me.
So I haven’t stopped.
These walks are healing in ways that can’t always be measured, only felt. And for me, that’s enough of a reason to continue.
While we’re out on one of our walks, I take a few pictures of details, colours and textures that catch my attention, but mainly my phone remains in my pocket.
Each picture shared in my Instagram story was taken on that day’s walk. And I challenge myself to add text to create a story based on the pictures I’ve taken when we get home.
The picture-taking and the story crafting all happen quickly. I’m still working on not beating myself up if I catch any spelling or grammar mistakes after the fact.
It’s helped me enjoy my time outside even more and gives me an always welcomed creative boost.
(I’ve saved some of my previous walks as highlights on Instagram in case you need a shot of the outdoors and a dose of humour. You can find them here and here. There are even some musical walks too. Now when I share a walk, it’s only available for 24 hours so feel free to follow me so you don’t miss any.)
On any walk I go on, I’m delighted by how many new things I’m noticing even in an area that I’ve walked past hundreds of times.
Mainly because I’m taking the time to look at what’s around me.
And sharing them has not only been about connecting with friends who aren’t well.
It’s my radical and rebellious way of expanding and sharing my joy too.
Not to ignore or replace reality. But rather to release a little pressure, recharge my batteries and remember that I’m surrounded by more than just suffering and harm.
I’m rewarded with the most beautiful sunsets, clouds, moss-covered bark, vibrant coloured berries and bird sightings.
And yet what’s often happened in the past, is that my joy is met with silence.
I know there are many reasons for silence. I use it myself at times. It can be empowering and destructive.
But when I write about my pain and share the lessons learned from a horrible incident I’ve lived through, I’m rewarded with a brief increase in interest, follows and likes. (Feel free to insert your own sarcastic “Yipee!” here.)
It’s exhausting and demoralizing living through moments like that. Even after you muster enough courage to finally write about them. And again when there’s no change after sharing your soul.
And writing about my pain comes with plenty of unwelcomed advice, empty apologies, and lip service from people stuck in saviour mode who throw tantrums when I don’t allow them to slip past the boundary I’m enforcing.
But we can’t be silent about celebrating the wonders, magic and delights in this world.
Joy is an act of resistance.**
It must be celebrated.
Even if it’s one walk, one picture, one story, one moment at a time.
**“Joy is an act of resistance" is a line from the poem "The Telly Cycle" by Toi Derricotte.
