"Above all, do not lose your desire to walk: every day I walk myself into a state of well being..." Søren Kierkegaard

In 1981 I was living in the city of Nicosia on the island of Cyprus and had begun my last year in the Junior School, which I had attended since I was six years old. I was now in the second class of Upper School, and was therefore a member of the elite group of ‘big’ girls and boys. The first day of school began as it always did. The students entered the school hall class by class, with the youngest children in the front rows, and us upper schoolers at the back. We faced the dais where the headmaster stood, and where the headmistress and the teachers sat. As always there was a reading from the bible, a hymn was sung, and then it was time for the announcements. Those of us in the Upper Second waited eagerly to find out who would be head girl and head boy for that school year. Once the delighted chosen had walked up the aisle and been given their pins, the eight house leaders – one boy and one girl for each of the four house – were announced. Being a somewhat shy and introspective child I never saw myself in any kind of leadership role so I was astonished when I heard my name being called out. Blushing furiously I went up to the dais and accepted my House Girl pin from the headmaster. 

   My most important job as House Girl, aside from setting a ‘good example’ for my peers, was to choose the girls in my house who would participate in our school sports days. These highly anticipated events took place on the sports field of the English School, whose grounds (I use this word in the loosest sense) merged with ours. 

   I became a member of English School in the fall of 1982, and I had to adjust to once again being at the ‘bottom’ of the school, a callow twelve-year-old who gazed upon the tall, almost-adult seventeen and eighteen year olds in the upper forms with awe. It wasn’t long before the school sports mistress added me to my house running team and I began my career as a racer. The sports mistress had me doing 200 and 400 meter races, which I quite frankly hated. Those are horrible distances; they are not a dash, but they are too short to allow you to get into the true rhythm of a longer run. However, when I started doing laps as part of my training regimen I discovered that I really loved running long distances. 

  I started running from home, and the distances got longer and longer. Occasionally, if I did not plan my run properly, I ran out of steam before I got home and had to walk back. This was how I discovered that long walks in my own company were quite wonderful. 

   As a small child in my village in Lebanon I often went on Expetitions of Discovery with my friends that lasted for hours. Later, in Cyprus, my family was part of a group of folks that went picnicking and walking together on weekends. I helped walk the family dog, and went for long downtown walks with my friends as we explored shops and chatted. Going for walks had always been a part of my social life, but at this point in my story it became a part of my personal life.

  So now I had running days and I had walking days. With my Walkman headphones over my ears I roamed into the city and sometimes out beyond the houses onto the plain that surrounds Nicosia. There, from low altitude buttes, I could look across arid, scrubby valleys towards the distant Troodos Mountains.

  Then, when I was fifteen, the monster in my head that had been dormant woke up. The change was not a sudden thing, so the machinery of my depression did its terrible work without anyone noticing. I myself had no idea what had happened and knew next to nothing about depression. All I did know what that I started to feel like something ‘other.’ For some reason I was now outside the society that my peers belonged to, looking in. I could not understand how or why this had happened and my isolated self was incredibly lonely. 

  My walks and runs, both in the city and in the countryside when we went to stay at a rented house in the mountains during the hot summers, became my life preserver. They kept my head above water, just about, as I stumbled through the last incredibly difficult years of high school.

   When I went to university at Oxford the weight of my academic and personal struggles made my depression much worse. My runs and long walks became the only thing that kept me going. Running or walking I explored first the city and then beyond. On the west side of Oxford there is a canal, the Oxford Canal, and I went up or down the tow path for miles, past locks and moored narrow boats. I saw water rats, ducks, swans, dabchicks, coots, and many other creatures. Then I found, on the other side of the Canal and due west of my college, a wonderful place called Port Meadow. 

   Port Meadow is a large area (136 square hectares or 366 square miles) of common grassland which is bordered by the Thames to the west, a railway line to the East, and the village of Wolvercote to the north. Every winter it floods, which provides wild ducks and other wildfowl with a safe place to spend the colder months. Horses, ponies, and cattle also live in the meadow. I loved exploring this unique place, and its beauty helped me to get through the darkest of days. 

   I did not realize then, before my depression was diagnosed or treated, that my runs and walks were giving me a natural ‘high.’ They were my medicine, and thanks to them I managed to complete my course and get my degree, on my own and without any support.

   Even after my illness was finally identified and I did get help, runs and walks were an essential part of my life. After we moved west to Oregon I went for long walks and runs up into the mountains, often with my dog Pinot for company. I went out in the rain and snow, and got up very early in the summer to beat the head.

   Then in March of 2020 I got Covid, and afterwards when it turned into Long Covid, months and months went by when I could not leave the house. In the last year I have been very much housebound, until around two weeks ago. After the ‘screaming episode’ that I told you about I realized that I had to start walking again. I needed to walk up the hills in town, and go on the trails in the watershed for the good of my mental health. And this is exactly what I have done, and what a gift it has been. The walks give me a much needed break from taking care of Milo, and the scenery distracts me from my aching arms. Though the hills make me puff and my legs burn, I come home a much happier version of myself who once again feels in control of her own little boat. 

Photo: Yours truly racing for the finish line circa 1985

Art: Peter Baker