Patrick
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“People strut and swagger in front of others, but rarely alone. These are social gestures. Walking, the slowest form of travel, is the quickest route to our more authentic selves. We can't return to some long-lost paradise that probably never was. But we can walk. We can walk to work. We can walk our daughter to school. We can walk alone, to nowhere in particular on a crisp and breezy autumn afternoon.
We walk to forget. We walk to forget the cranky boss, the spat with the spouse, the pile of unpaid bills, the flashing warning light in your Subaru, indicating either that the tire pressure is low or the car is on fire. We walk to forget, if only momentarily, a world that is "too much with us," as William Wordsworth, another fine walker, put it.
We walk to forget ourselves, too. I know I do. The surplus fifteen pounds resistant to every diet known to man, the recidivist nasal hair, the decade-old blemish that suddenly, for reasons known only to it, has decided to self-actualize on the crown of my bald head, spreading like an inkblot. All forgotten when I walk.
Walking is democratic. Barring a disability, anyone can walk. The wealthy walker has no advantage over the impoverished one. Rousseau, despite his literary success, always saw himself as "the son of a worker," what we now call blue-collar. People like that didn't ride in fancy carriages. They walked.
They walked as I do now: attentively, one step at a time, relishing the sturdiness, and the springiness, too, of serious earth.”
―
We walk to forget. We walk to forget the cranky boss, the spat with the spouse, the pile of unpaid bills, the flashing warning light in your Subaru, indicating either that the tire pressure is low or the car is on fire. We walk to forget, if only momentarily, a world that is "too much with us," as William Wordsworth, another fine walker, put it.
We walk to forget ourselves, too. I know I do. The surplus fifteen pounds resistant to every diet known to man, the recidivist nasal hair, the decade-old blemish that suddenly, for reasons known only to it, has decided to self-actualize on the crown of my bald head, spreading like an inkblot. All forgotten when I walk.
Walking is democratic. Barring a disability, anyone can walk. The wealthy walker has no advantage over the impoverished one. Rousseau, despite his literary success, always saw himself as "the son of a worker," what we now call blue-collar. People like that didn't ride in fancy carriages. They walked.
They walked as I do now: attentively, one step at a time, relishing the sturdiness, and the springiness, too, of serious earth.”
―
“the true test of a country’s level of civility has nothing to do with building the tallest skyscraper or driving the fastest car, nor does it matter how advanced your weapons system is or how powerful your military might be; it is also not about how advanced your technology is or even your artistic achievements, and it is especially not related to how lavish your official government meetings are or how splendid your firework displays are, or even how many rich Chinese tourists you have buying up different parts of the world. There is only one true test, and that is how you treat the weakest and most vulnerable members of your society.”
― Wuhan Diary: Dispatches from a Quarantined City
― Wuhan Diary: Dispatches from a Quarantined City
“I walk alone. I walk with intention. I let my mind wander, but not too far. I'm getting good at this. No, that is pride speaking. Silence that voice. Connect with the earth. That's better.
I find a rhythm. I sense my surroundings - the birds singing, the satisfying crunch of gravel underfoot. I walk, and walk some more. My legs ache. My feet grow sore. Yet, still, I walk. It hurts, and it feels good.
I am making good progress now. How many steps, I wonder? Reflexively, I twist my wrist and am about to check my Fitbit when I stop myself. I inhale deeply, greedily, like a diver coming up for air.”
―
I find a rhythm. I sense my surroundings - the birds singing, the satisfying crunch of gravel underfoot. I walk, and walk some more. My legs ache. My feet grow sore. Yet, still, I walk. It hurts, and it feels good.
I am making good progress now. How many steps, I wonder? Reflexively, I twist my wrist and am about to check my Fitbit when I stop myself. I inhale deeply, greedily, like a diver coming up for air.”
―
“Duty comes from inside, obligation from outside. When we act out of a sense of duty, we do so voluntarily to lift ourselves, and others, higher. When we act out of obligation, we do so to shield ourselves, and only ourselves, from repercussions.”
― The Socrates Express: In Search of Life Lessons from Dead Philosophers
― The Socrates Express: In Search of Life Lessons from Dead Philosophers
“The Jewish theologian Abraham Heschel described the Sabbath as a "sanctuary in time." Walking is a sanctuary in motion. The peace we experience with each step adheres, and it conveys. Portable serenity.
The pain evaporates. With each step, I feel less burdened, more buoyant, as if someone had inflated my shoes. I sense the seriousness of the earth, and its lightness, too. Step. Step.
As the sun bows low in the sky, I grow aware of a peculiar presence, as if my feet were grazing a large and benevolent creature. It's not anything I can name, this presence, yet I know, and, with unaccustomed certainty, that it is older than old, bubbling up from a long ago time, before words.”
―
The pain evaporates. With each step, I feel less burdened, more buoyant, as if someone had inflated my shoes. I sense the seriousness of the earth, and its lightness, too. Step. Step.
As the sun bows low in the sky, I grow aware of a peculiar presence, as if my feet were grazing a large and benevolent creature. It's not anything I can name, this presence, yet I know, and, with unaccustomed certainty, that it is older than old, bubbling up from a long ago time, before words.”
―
Patrick’s 2025 Year in Books
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