Ode to Aimlessness

Abstract

Ode to Aimlessness Jennifer McGaha (bio) I am not athletic in the traditional sense. I do not ski or snowboard or participate in any activities that involve a ball or other bouncy objects. However, I have always been fairly active, and for a number of years I ran regularly. I loved the catharsis that running brought—the total whiteout of the brain. When I was running, all conscious thoughts stopped, and when I was finished, I was spent, emotionally satiated, physically ravenous. [End Page 63] Still, my activity of choice has always been walking, not power walking or competitive hiking or any such complex endeavor—simply walking. Walking in town. Walking on beaches. Walking on trails. Walking up mountains. Any kind of walking. Walking is the perfect exercise for me because it requires no special skills or talents. You do not have to learn to do it or train to do it. You do not need special clothes or equipment. You just do it. In her groundbreaking 1938 craft book If You Want to Write, Brenda Ueland recognized the power of walking to soothe creative, angsty souls. She also said writers should spend time each day engaged in what she called "moodling." "[T]he imagination needs moodling," Ueland said, "—long, inefficient, happy idling, dawdling and puttering." When I first read this, I was delighted. The list of things at which I was inept often seemed staggering, but idling? Dawdling? Puttering? Finally, here was a concise list of all the things at which I excelled. Of course, Ueland was not the first or the last writer to appreciate the creative stimulus walking affords. Henry David Thoreau, William Wordsworth, Charles Dickens, Carl Sandburg, Wendell Berry, and, by God, my own literary and walking heroine Cheryl Strayed all found solace and renewal in the outdoors, in "purposeless" strolling, if you will. For me, the walking came first, and the writing came later—much later. Taking leisurely walks was a habit I developed early in life, one I inherited from both my parents. When I am walking, I can relax. The swirling thoughts that normally keep me agitated and anxious fall neatly into a logical sequence. I resolve problems with my writing. I prepare for my classes. I figure out what I want to say in a manuscript critique. I plan my weekly dinner menu, mentally compose a shopping list, untangle a tangled relationship. Daily walking gives me clarity [End Page 64] and keeps my anxiety and depression at bay. If only I walk far enough and long enough and fast enough, I can present myself to the world as a relatively together person. If I miss my walk, I am unable to function. I cannot sleep. I cannot stay awake. I have panic attacks. I can't focus to read or write. I can't remember anything. I can't compose an articulate sentence. It seems I have almost always been this way. In 1974, when I was seven-years-old, my grandfather, brother, and I walked ten miles from my grandparents' home in Canton, North Carolina to Lake Junaluska just for the hell of it. My eleven-year-old brother planned the outing, and he did his best to persuade me not to go because he worried I would slow him down, maybe even wimp out before we even got a good start out of town. He wanted this to be a smooth operation, flawlessly executed, and in fairness to him, his concerns were not unfounded. I had a history of having the most major, most public meltdowns at the most inconvenient moments. But I had insisted, and finally, my brother relented. We headed out, down the hill, past the paper plant where my grandfather worked, onto the highway. It was a sweltering July day, and we had no water, no snacks, just an end goal in mind—the gas station next to the lake. There we would refuel on soda and snacks, then call my grandmother from a pay phone to report our mission complete. Though my parents frequently took my brother and me walking in the national forest near our home, this was my first long adventure, and about five...