A Man, a Dog, a Walk Around the World
There are many ways to walk. One may stride or stroll. Or amble, ramble, mosey, or wander—all of which imply a certain leisurely aimlessness when, bestowed with the grand luxuries of time and of money, there is nowhere in particular to be and nothing in particular to do.
Yet there are also more determined, more decisive forms of traveling on foot—hiking, trekking, tramping, and trooping, among them. These convey a sense of purpose or of place, the elements that lend structure and meaning, even if mundane, to the path ahead. One might commute long stretches of concrete, going city block after city block, only to reach an endpoint as ordinary as the office. Or one might traverse, on something like a spiritual pilgrimage, a distance deemed to be iconic, say the height of Mount Everest or the length of the Great Wall. But no matter where one walks, each journey unfolds in fundamentally the same way: one foot after the other, one step at a time.
The steps come easier on some days than on others. One moment might feel like a cake walk or a walk in the park, so to say, or like you’re walking on air, a cloud, or a dream—or any number of the optimistic maxims that have made their way into many a pop song. Other times, walking is nothing to rejoice in; it’s only an arduous trudge.
