No Longer Playing Small
There were times when I used to play small and shrink in order to make sure people in my life felt ok. Walking shifted that. On one windy, cold, icy morning, I became curious. Why do I do this? How is this behavior helping/supporting me?
There were times when I used to play small and shrink in order to make sure people in my life felt ok. Walking shifted that. On one windy, cold, icy morning, I became curious. Why do I do this? How is this behavior helping/supporting me? Or anyone else, for that matter. Now, don’t get me wrong, I want the people around me to feel ok. And. I want to show up whole, abundant, and true.
Playing small. What do I mean? Because actually, I am 5’ 12”. I believe it means that we avoid actions we think might cause a problem or make someone else feel uncomfortable. Our culture teaches us from a very young age to be quiet, hide our accomplishments, and keep our opinions to ourselves. There's plenty of shame out there for taking up space, being heard and seen. Why? Really, why?
I think we often feel fear when stepping out of our comfort zone. This is where walking comes in. Getting comfortable with the uncomfortable. The days when it is pouring rain—those days are teachers. It’s uncomfortable. But at the end of the day, it is just rain. What I have learned on those days is patience, and being with/in the discomfort. It passes, the discomfort. What remains is a truer understanding of our place, or strength, ourselves. We just have to allow for some discomfort and quiet to teach us. Walking is that teacher for me.
Libby DeLana is an award-winning executive creative director, designer/art director by trade, who has spent her career in the ad world. Click here to get your copy of Libby’s first published book, Do Walk. You can connect with Libby on Instagram @thismorningwalk and @parkhere.
HARMONY / BALANCE
I hear a lot of discussion about the quest for balance. I don’t think there is a place called balance. Life is in constant flux, so balance can only be temporary; therefore, seeking it as a desired end state is impossible. I think what I seek is not balance, but harmony.
Today’s ThisMorningWalk inquiry: the difference between harmony and balance. I know, I know it’s a bit esoteric. Why not simply think about toast with jam or butter? Butter, btw.
I hear a lot of discussion about the quest for balance. I don’t think there is a place called balance. Life is in constant flux, so balance can only be temporary; therefore, seeking it as a desired end state is impossible.
I always look to the natural world for clues; tides come in and go out, seasons are constantly shifting, creatures are on the move, life and death rolls in and out, storms come and go. I think what I seek is not balance, but harmony.
In fact, when I was in pursuit of balance, I think I created more frustration and disappointment for myself. So, I am shifting my language to be seeking harmony in my life, not balance. Harmony instead feels softer, generous, inclusive, and beautiful. Think how beautiful the sound of harmony in music is.
So as we begin the New Year, I am walking into harmony, with harmony, seeking harmony.
har·mo·ny
/ˈhärmənē/
a consistent, orderly, or pleasing arrangement of parts; congruity.
bal·ance
/ˈbaləns/
Verb
keep or put (something) in a steady position so that it does not fall
Noun
a condition in which different elements are equal
Harmony is beautiful.
Happiness is when what you think, what you say, and what you do are in harmony.
— Mahatma Gandhi
Libby DeLana is an award-winning executive creative director, designer/art director by trade, who has spent her career in the ad world. Click here to get your copy of Libby’s first published book, Do Walk. You can connect with Libby on Instagram @thismorningwalk and @parkhere.
What I needed was to keep walking
One quiet and cold early November morning 12 years ago, I woke up slowly. I made spicy chai tea, wiped a skin of frost from the window, and realized that an essential component of who I was as a kid was no longer a part of who I was as an adult. I was happy, but I wasn’t whole.
One quiet and cold early November morning 12 years ago, I woke up slowly. I made spicy chai tea, wiped a skin of frost from the window, and realized that an essential component of who I was as a kid was no longer a part of who I was as an adult.
As a child, I was quite free-range—long before “free-range” was a thing to be. I spent all day outside. I was happiest with dirt on the bottom of my feet, my hair in a two-day-old ponytail, and cold morning air in my lungs. My connection to the natural world was instant and effortless. I understood my place in the larger ecosystem, and I felt a deep sense of belonging.
Then, like a lot of adults, I lost touch with it. It wasn’t an intentional decision, or even a conscious one, but at some point, being outside ceased to be a vital part of my day.
My life back then was wonderful and average. I had a successful 20-year career in advertising. I was often on the road, traveling for commercial shoots and client meetings. I had a healthy family with two growing boys, and a sparkly collection of friends. But during those decades, I spent most of my time indoors, in conference rooms, in meetings, on planes, in the house, in the office, in the kitchen, in cars. I was happy, but I wasn’t whole.
No wise or elegant words arrived to help me convey what I was feeling that November morning. All I could say was all that I knew something was missing. I remember reading a quote from Georgia O’Keeffe about the reason she painted, and the gist of it was: I don't know how to say how I feel, but I do know how to paint how I feel. That’s what being outside is like for me. I couldn’t be myself or know myself without nature as my teacher and companion.
But 12 years ago, there was no conversation about self-care, especially for women. As a mother, putting yourself before others was at best, rebellious, and at worst, selfish.
But if I didn’t do something, I knew the part of me that was missing would be gone forever.
So, the next morning, I got up in the dark before the world had woken; I put on my shoes and went for a walk. It was a beautiful and chilly reunion with me. I promised myself that I’d get up early every morning and go for a 60-min walk, no matter what.
That first week was wobbly, uncertain, dark, cold—and joyous.
I’ve walked in the snow, in the rain, on bright, sunny mornings, with all the wild birdsong accompanying me.
It’s been 12 years since I made my walking promise, and I’ve never missed a day. Most days, it’s very simple: out my backdoor by 5:30 a.m., walk for an hour. A few years ago, walking alongside my sons, I calculated that over the course of these many mornings, I’d traveled the circumference of the Earth.
After more than a decade on foot, I’ve seen much of it, too. I’ve walked in the great cities of the world and in the Badlands, which are not bad at all.
There was a walk in Hornstrandir, a remote protected nature reserve located in the Westfjords of Iceland, about six hours from Reykivik, where I hiked with a group of 15 women over tundra, cliffs, flowering fields, and ice. We were hosting “The World's Most Remote Film Festival,” for 10 days off the grid. (If you’re wondering how it’s possible to host a film festival off the grid, the short answer is… very creatively.)
I was overwhelmed by the steep cliffs, the darkness of the dark, and the brilliance of the light.
Claire cheered me on as my 61-year-old eyes or inner ear or equilibrium faltered on the switch backs, with a steep cliff on one side. Bradlee kept her hand on my pack, tender but steadfast in her care of me. In each step, we made a promise of love to ourselves and each other.
Once, at home, I walked all night long through my community on the North Shore. I’d received some upsetting news late that evening at the office, a tectonic shift in my life and my family’s. I walked what I’d come to call “the Loop,” five miles around the neighborhood and through the woods. And that night—through grief, anger and uncertainty. I asked myself after each circuit, “Do you want to keep going? Do you need a hot shower, a cup of tea, a call with a friend, new socks, a hug?” What I needed was to keep walking. I walked until morning, 13 hours in total. My walking practice held space for me, but what I came to realize was that my walking practice also had me.
My favorite walk on the West Coast is an out-and-back on a dirt road that ends with the kiss of the Pacific Ocean. I take a gentle, sunny slope down to the water, pausing briefly in the shade of the eucalyptus trees and bay laurel, which are so fragrant it feels as if I’m wrapped in my father’s arms. In this sacred space, you might find a bobkitten as I once did, which causes you to stop, not in fear, but in wonder. She might be surprised to see you there—or she might not—because you’re part of her ecosystem, her homecoming, too.
This walking practice is not about the number of steps or the number of miles. It’s about the intention, the action, and the promise. I don’t know where I’d be if I hadn’t started to walk, but I wouldn’t have gotten far.
Libby DeLana is an award-winning executive creative director, designer/art director by trade, who has spent her career in the ad world. Click here to get your copy of Libby’s first published book, Do Walk. You can connect with Libby on Instagram @thismorningwalk and @parkhere.
Lessons Learned Through Walking
November is the month that I started my walking practice. November 3rd to be exact. My dad’s birthday. I always try to take a very special walk on that day and ask my dad for advice. He always shows up.
November is an important and elegant month. The light shifts. The time shifts and it marks for me the month that I started my walking practice. November 3rd to be exact. My dad’s birthday. I always try to take a very special walk on that day and ask my dad for advice. He always shows up. This year it was: Keep walking. Dream bigger. Love all (even the miserable and crotchety). Such solid advice.
I have been fortunate to learn a lot on my walks. I feel as I continue to walk, the more significant the lessons, and that I would only have access to these lessons by walking into them.
A few of the lessons that have arrived during my walks.
Spend time by yourself. Enjoy your own company.
Change is inevitable. It happens every moment of our lives. The only thing we have control over is how we show up in the face of that change.
Surround yourself and hold close the community who love you and cheer you on.
We are the natural world. We are not separate from the natural world.
Trust that when we walk in the space of the things that light us up the universe will acknowledge and honor that.
What is for me isn’t going to miss me.
Talk about your dreams in the present tense and it will be so
Try something. Fail. Try again. Fail again. Stand up, try again. Fail big. Recognize it may not be meant for me.
Note the change of seasons. November can be a time for introspection, active rest and honoring our animal intuition.
Walking With Friends
You know that feeling when you have something in your heart that you can’t resolve or sort out? Or that morning when you just want a hug and someone to share thrilling news with? Friends (community) + Walking (movement) = A Powerful Force.
I think it may be one of the most powerful forces on the planet.
You know that feeling when you have something in your heart that you can’t resolve or sort out? Or that morning when you just want a hug and someone to share thrilling news with? Friends (community) + Walking (movement) = A Powerful Force. When we add energy and movement to a conversation, I believe more of the subtle magic of life is revealed. Sure, going out for a cup of tea or dinner is wonderful. It is. I love it. But there is something super sparkly about going for a walk with a friend.
Good friends make you feel seen, protected, supported, and brave. In their company, a walk can feel like a joyful playground, a safe space, a place of connection, a moment to acknowledge, or a morning to remember. I have come to realize that walking with a friend actually regulates my nervous system in a way very few other things can. Especially if we are walking in the wild.
Friends occupy a unique place in our lives. Different from partners, colleagues, children, extended family — friends are chosen. Friends provide a unique perspective on what’s happening; someone we can share a giggle with, bond over shared loves and values, who support us in who we are and who we aspire to be. And perhaps most importantly, friends are those we trust to tell the hard or difficult thing without risk of judgment.
I think walking holds within it support and aspiration all at once. There aren’t many things each day that do this quite the way a shared walk does. Moving together side by side, forward, generating energy and action is an elixir for many of the things that are scratchy in life.
Many of my friends are forces of nature. They are my edges, they help me define me, and they are my center. I count on them. When I walk with friends, I feel nourished and loved fully. Walking together with them is where we love each other most powerfully. Walking helps me understand where I am and what I feel. Walking is when I am able to see and share my messy, glorious, and full truth — and walking is when I know myself most clearly.
Libby DeLana is an award-winning executive creative director, designer/art director by trade, who has spent her career in the ad world. Click here to get your copy of Libby’s first published book, Do Walk. You can connect with Libby on Instagram @thismorningwalk and @parkhere.