By Leslie Morgenson
Published in December 2007
I remember taking a train alone from Kitchener many years ago. Young and troubled, facing an uncertain path in life, for the next six hours I had nothing to do but ponder my doubts. There was a light snow on the tracks which gave the traveler a muffled awareness. And as I stared out the window, I became absorbed with the passing surroundings and began to focus outside instead of inside. I felt as if I were on a mischievous voyage, peeking into people’s true lives for the train does not travel down the lovely manicured facades of town. Instead it offers an alternate view of the cities you pass through- the clotheslines, the scrap yards, under bridges, past fences over which gossip might be exchanged. My train reverie was one of those unforgettable and formative moments in life when something shifts and you realize there are alternate paths.
To walk these alternate paths however, is not often considered socially acceptable. We are expected to walk where the city wants us to walk as indicated by public sidewalks. To walk the train tracks, for example, might make you suspect or worse, leave you open to chance.
People at St. John’s Kitchen walk the city as evident by their sore feet and worn shoes. And because they walk, they possess knowledge of these twin cities. Like the train, they too walk the back streets, the tracks, behind buildings and in doing so they read a different tale of a city. It is reminiscent of “Murmur” the project started a few years ago in some cities across Canada whereby the common person has the opportunity to tell their own story about a particular house, bench or street corner in a city. It was a way to take storytelling out of the hands of city officials and give it to the people who live in the city.
For those who have choice, driving is faster but what does one do with the time saved? Rest? Socialize? The truth is, driving typically provokes more anxiety than walking. Walking requires more rest and you socialize more when you walk because the opportunities are there.
Cultural historian Rebecca Solnit (Wanderlust: A History of Walking) says that to walk is to be outside society. Therefore it has held much appeal for poets and philosophers who lament technological progress. Walking is incorruptible. It cannot be improved upon. Solnit cites many throughout history both real and fictitious for whom walking was essential. Soren Kierkegaard, Frederich Neitzsche, Jeremy Bentham did their thinking as they walked. For Elizabeth Benett in Pride and Prejudice, her long walks were the vehicle that set her apart from the rest of society, and showed her to be an independent thinker.
Solnit articulates beautifully the gem to be found in walking, to escape society, as an act of resistance, to see walking as art, as a form of speech, as a beginning to revolutions, pilgrimages and a way to solve problems. Just being in the street as a way of being vocal.
Typically, says Solnit, we live in a series of interiors that are disconnected: home, car, gym, office, shops. The appeal of walking is in the connectedness one has with the world. But not only is it the fluidity that rewards the walker, but the pleasing pace as well.
If there is a commonality in the lifestyles of the people of St. John’s Kitchen it is this: they are all walkers. I’ve asked some of these walkers if they too, like me, find walking meditative, or is it just plain tiring when you don’t have the option of driving. They’ve responded unanimously that it is both meditative and tiring. I’ve seen many sore feet and inadequate footwear in my years at the Kitchen. But I’m not surprised that despite the fatigue, people yet find walking a thoughtful pursuit. I find this diverse culture to be a group of people who are reflective; who always present me with a perspective I hadn’t thought of before and I wouldn’t likely encounter in mainstream life. It’s as if one needs to walk the alternate path to gain the alternate thoughts.
Walking off the beaten path, begs for a different approach in life. It moves away from the proper paths and ventures toward claiming inclusion with one’s own story, as it were, through a different mapping of the cityscape. With any diverse culture the statements people need to make are sometimes such an alternate perspective that words alone can’t be heard by the rest of the community. Walking can be seen as another form of talk, a political statement of sorts. “These are my tracks and this is my map. I know this city, as evident in my blisters.” I tend to put more trust in people who walk because when we move our feet down a different path our minds follow. For not only do they have a physical connection with the city, but also a more intimate tie to the earth and the elements providing a spiritual experience all the while with feet firmly planted on the ground. Most of us are so certain of our choices in life, there is little room for a shift in thought, which is at times essential, lest self-centred perspectives settle into our comfortable lives. In the time and money conscious society we have an eye on destination and forget the journey which can be filled with the unplanned. And the unplanned is often the “cup runneth over” portion of our lives, the surprises that fill us with joy.
I have a growing list of books that unbeknownst to the authors, capture the spirit of St. John’s Kitchen. Wanderlust, is the latest. I was not surprised to learn that Rebecca Solnit had worked at the San Francisco Zen Centre, an establishment similar to St. John’s Kitchen. Her high praise for the walking life is well placed in this community of St. John’s Kitchen. “Walking, ideally,” she says, “is a state in which the mind, the body and the world are aligned, as though they were three characters finally in conversation together; three notes suddenly making a chord.”
It was a train that made my mind shift that day many years ago, but I like to think that if I hadn’t been on that train, my feet eventually would have known what to do.
