patience

on walking. slowly.

“I’m going for a walk,” I text my neighbours, in case they come to walk the dog before I get back.

“Don’t overdo it,” she texts back.

I smile. She knows right well I overdid it yesterday. Tried walking the dog last night (after church in the morning, mind you). It was ok, but Gibson’s pace is faster than mine, and although I kept up, today I regretted it.

“You have to be patient,” cautions Jeff.

“Take it easy,” people say.

But I’m a fast walker, have been ever since my friends hit puberty long before I did. They got tall and I stayed short, and so I learned to walk fast. This slow-walking thing is a definite … change of pace.

See what I did there?

It’s another phase of this forced slowdown, I guess. The crutches are gone, replaced by a walking stick that Jeff’s dad made for his mom long ago. His dad died suddenly when Jeff was a teenager, so the walking stick is a permanent treasure in our home.

I was a lot faster on the crutches.

Even faster on the little scooter.

But now it’s me and a walking stick, listening to the physiotherapist’s voice in my head.

“Look up! Stand taller! Engage your core as you walk! Don’t let your foot roll in! It will hurt. It will swell. It’s normal.”

So I walk tonight through a neighbourhood I’ve been walking for years. I walk slowly, as tall as I can, my walking stick tap-tapping in the dark like some mysterious figure in the night in an Agatha Christie novel.

I get home, and Gibson is waiting for me. He’s mildly offended that I went without him, but he’s not one to hold a grudge. The neighbour will come by with their own dog in a few minutes to take him out, as they have for the last two months, every morning and evening, when Jeff is at work.

I really don’t know what we would have done without our dog-walking neighbours. They cheerfully brush off our thanks. “Gotta take Disco out anyway.”

I was kinda hoping I’d be able to take back the evening walks this week, but … not yet.

Patience. It will come.

One slow, deliberate step at a time.