Since speaking with Esther Myobun about how the physical act of pilgrimage can help heal us and this nation, I’ve been reflecting about how the body, in its own way, pushes us towards recovery and renewal, and is often way ahead of the mind.

Esther woke up the morning after the famous put-down of Zelenskyy, President of the Ukraine, by Trump and Vance in a public press conference, and decided to start walking (see Liberty Walks). Cross-country, from Oregon to Washington DC. The mind didn’t come up with this, or with a reason; the body did.

She told me about a woman, I believe her name was Lisa, who housed and fed them for a couple of days at her ranch in Wyoming. Lisa told them that she had lost her husband of many years just six months ago, and decided she had to walk. How? On the famous Camino de Santiago in Spain. Not because she’s Catholic (she’s not), but just the sense that this is what she’s meant to do. This is how she’ll heal, which doesn’t mean forget. Maybe it’s more about integration, realizing: This too is my life—and this—and this.

A friend has been walking on many sections of that same Camino, in both Spain and Portugal, a number of times over many months and I believe that he, too, carries wounds and losses. You could write about them, sure, but that’s just thoughts and feelings, nothing as immediate and palpable as walking, legs striding forward, one alternating with the other, the hips, the knees, the body in motion. A secret that only the body knows.

When we’re at our annual retreat at Auschwitz-Birkenau, we walk. Those who can, walk each morning from the Dialogue Center to Birkenau (a bus takes the others), enter through the main gate and continue down the railway tracks. At sundown, when we leave Birkenau, people want to still walk though they’re often tired. And during the day they walk throughout that huge camp, inside and in between old barracks, pausing at killing sites, looking up at the witnessing birch trees and down at the gullies dug up by inmates long ago.

Walking is part of the retreat. So is walking in street retreats, going from one soup kitchen to another, one park to another, past people sitting at the curb taking in some sun and maybe holding up a sign, past expensive brownstones and apartment buildings guarded by doormen, in and out of grocery stores asking for a free cup of coffee, getting into conversation with street people—all the things you can’t do when you’re walking fast to get somewhere: the office, a meeting, a store, a movie.

On these occasions you learn to trust the body, because the body knows. Is something aching? Are you meant to have a rest? I’m not saying there are no hardships. In fact, as Esther put it describing her blisters: “When you do hard things, you pay attention to the body in the way you may not at other times.” Just as I see if my doctor looks exhausted (as many nowadays do), I notice my body because the body is my physician (warning: It doesn’t accept Medicare or medical insurance).

Another friend recently told me that when her husband had some trouble at work, he began to do lots of housework around their home. We often think that that’s because of our need to be active, but it could also be the way we integrate disappointment, frustration, and grief.

Lately I’ve been thinking of Bernie and our Pit Bull, Bubale, as they aged. Bubale had bad arthritis and Bernie bad knees, and still they joined us, resting atop a fallen tree while the other dog, Stanley, and I forged ahead at a faster clip.

In a way, sitting meditation is also like that. When I sit, I’m not being physically active but am very aware of the body, the breath, the belly, feet smack on the ground, never hanging; everything still. Not in my head, not organizing, not trying to remember and certainly not figuring things out. There are many ways in which I could describe sitting, but at its most basic, it’s dropping into the body and being aware, alive, and somewhat curious.

The stomach may growl, the leg cramp or the neck tense. No different from what may come up the rest of the day—a stressful thought, perplexing phone conversation, a disappointing interaction with a friend, like the waves of grass in the afternoon breeze.

Yesterday I took both Aussie and Henry for a walk. Henry had been out of commission due to injuring his dewclaw, but now he joined us in the Montague Plains, tail wagging high. When we returned to the car there was no sign of Aussie, so I sat down on a sawed-off tree trunk nearby. Really sat. Henry did what he always does with a captive audience, brought me twigs to throw for him, and I did.

Time goes by, I sit, throw things. Remember the drug store and the bank, remember a 2:00 meeting on Zoom, but it occurred to me that maybe the single most important thing I’m doing with my life is throwing sticks for this little dog. How do I know what’s important? Dragon flies hummed and bees visited and re-visited the goldenrods, watched over by pitch pines and scrub oaks, knowing without knowing that life doesn’t get much better than this.

When I finally see Aussie hurrying down the path towards us, it occurs to me that maybe she’s healing by running down the dusty path while I heal through stillness. When we get home, we’ll switch; regardless, the body’s working on behalf of everything.

Speaking of body—and brownies (huh?)—my friend Cynthia Barstow, who teaches sustainability marketing in UMass/Amherst, did a podcast with Christine Conroy, of the Greyston Bakery, and with me on her podcast called Shelf Sense regarding the Greyston Bakery, its brownies, employees, and spiritual foundation. I think it’s inspiring, and you can find it here.