How Often Do You Walk or Run #poetry

How often do you walk or run?
The question hangs in morning mist,
suspended between heartbeats,
between the pull of gravity
and the lightness of becoming.


In the beginning was the step—
not word, not thought,
but the primal push against earth,
the first rebellion of matter
seeking motion.

How often do we walk
through the corridors of existence,
our feet tracing arguments
older than Aristotle's wanderings
through the Lyceum?

Each footfall a syllogism:
If I am, then I move.
If I move, then I become.
If I become, then I am
more than I was
one step ago.

The ancient Greeks knew
that walking births wisdom—
peripatetic philosophers
whose thoughts kept rhythm
with sandaled feet
on marble stones.

How often?
As often as questions
need answers,
as often as answers
dissolve into
newer questions.


Some days I run
from the ghosts
that wear my mother's voice,
from disappointments
that cling like morning fog
to my shoulders.

Other days I walk
toward forgiveness,
my pace gentle
as a prayer,
each step a small
act of self-compassion.

The heart has its own
training schedule—
interval training
between joy and sorrow,
sprinting toward love,
cooling down
in loneliness.

How often do you run
from your own reflection?

How often do you walk
back to yourself
after getting lost
in other people's
expectations?

The emotional body
knows distances
unmeasurable by GPS—
the marathon between
anger and acceptance,
the quick dash
from hurt to healing,
the slow, steady walk
through grief's
unmarked territory.


In crowds, we walk
differently—
matching pace
with strangers,
our individual rhythms
temporarily synchronized
in the great choreography
of sidewalks.

Running clubs form
unspoken hierarchies:
the gazelles who float
above asphalt,
the steady tortoises
who know endurance
is its own victory,
the weekend warriors
battling Monday morning
stiffness.

How often do we walk
in someone else's shoes?

The privilege of legs
that carry us
without question,
while others navigate
the world on wheels,
with canes,
with different kinds
of courage.

Social distancing taught us
the mathematics of space,
how six feet
can feel like
six miles
when you're walking
alone.


Muscles remember
their first rebellion
against inertia—
the toddler's triumph
of upright locomotion,
gravity conquered
one wobbling step
at a time.

Now the body speaks
its daily negotiations:
knees creaking morning protests,
calves tight with yesterday's
ambitions,
feet that know
every blister
is a small
meditation on limits.

How often do you listen
to your body's
honest conversation
with pavement?

The runner's high—
that sweet spot
where endorphins
rewrite the rules
of possible,
where breath becomes
rhythm becomes
transcendence.

But also the walker's wisdom:
the gentle pace
that lets us notice
dandelions pushing through
sidewalk cracks,
the architecture of shadows,
the small miracles
speed would blur.


Anxiety runs laps
around my skull,
circular thoughts
wearing grooves
in neural pathways
like feet on a track
that leads nowhere.

But walking meditation
breaks the cycle—
each step an anchor
to the present moment,
each breath a small
revolution against
the tyranny of
what-if scenarios.

How often do mental miles
exceed physical ones?

Depression walks
at its own pace—
sometimes frozen
in place,
sometimes moving
through molasses air
where every step
requires heroic effort.

The therapist's office
becomes a track
where we run
from insights
or walk slowly
toward understanding,
measuring progress
in willingness
to keep moving.


Books walk with us
in backpacks,
on audiobooks
that keep pace
with our strides,
knowledge absorbed
through the soles
of our feet.

University campuses
designed for walking—
the long paths between
buildings encouraging
thoughts to develop
step by step,
ideas cross-pollinating
as students
intersect on
diagonal shortcuts.

How often do you walk
through libraries
of your own making,
memories filed
by location:
the corner where
you first understood
calculus,
the bridge where
heartbreak taught you
about resilience?

Life as a long run:
some sprinting
through decades,
others finding
sustainable pace
for the distance.

The metaphors
multiply like
footprints:
walking on air,
running on empty,
taking steps
toward dreams,
running around
in circles.

How often do we walk
the line between
literal and symbolic?

Every journey
both actual
and allegorical—
the commute to work
also a daily pilgrimage,
the jog around the block
also a circumnavigation
of our smaller selves.


Sacred walking:
labyrinth paths
that spiral inward
toward center,
toward stillness,
toward the place
where movement
and meditation
become one practice.

The Camino de Santiago
worn smooth
by millions of soles
and souls
seeking something
that can only be found
by putting one foot
in front of the other
for hundreds of miles.

How often do you walk
as prayer?

Each step an offering,
each mile a small
surrender to
the mystery of
forward motion
in an uncertain
universe.

The Question Returns
How often do you walk or run?

The question echoes
differently now,
layered with all
these perspectives,
rich with recognition
that the asking itself
is movement,
that consciousness
is always in motion,
even in stillness.

We walk between
birth and death,
run toward
and away from
ourselves,
measure time
in steps taken
and not taken,
in races entered
and declined.

The answer changes
with seasons,
with age,
with the accumulating
wisdom of worn soles
and strengthened hearts.

How often?

Often enough
to know the pleasure
of legs that carry us,
the meditation
of repetitive motion,
the democracy
of sidewalks
that welcome all
at their chosen pace.

Often enough
to understand
that moving
is choosing,
that every step
is a small act
of faith
in forward,
in possible,
in the ground
rising to meet us
again and again.

As often as breath.
As often as hope.
As often as the earth
turns toward tomorrow
and we move
with it,
on it,
because of it.

The question lingers:
How often do you walk or run?

The answer walks with us,
runs alongside,
changes with each step
we take
or choose
not to take.

#poetry #Walking #Running #LifePerspectives #PoetryCommunity #Philosophy #EmotionalHealth #MentalHealth #PhysicalWellness #LifeJourney