50,000 Steps with a Heart Cracked Open
By: Anna Greenstone
Tags: Embodiment Practice, Walking, Dads, New Beginnings, Grief

Walking, Grief and Embodiment on the C&O Canal Towpath

C&O Canal Towpath around mile 15

If you told me a year ago that I’d walk more than 220 miles on the C&O, a narrow, winding path that hugs the Potomac River and a man-made, time-worn canal, I would’ve looked at you with wide eyes in disbelief. And that on the very first day of this spiritual, self-conjured ‘walk-about’, my feet would take nearly 50,000 steps, my past-self feet might have run for hiding. Because one year ago, I was in a murky place, with little sense of autonomy or connection to myself, weighed down by a fog of shame and dissociation.

The world and the US had spiraled into a global pandemic. My non-profit job was safe initially, but I struggled to perform. Wrought with anxiety, new remote work and programming required quick decision making that I couldn’t muster. As this strange new normal of zooms and social distancing took hold, I soon learned that I would be laid off.

Personal grief layered within me, amidst the pandemic grief we collectively faced. My heart was cracked from the somewhat abrupt and complicated loss of my father just weeks prior. Only seven months after his unexpected cancer diagnosis. Only 3 years after losing my mom. And so I existed in this fog, in a thick cobweb of numbness.

My vision for the future, for how I might pick myself up and start over again was clouded. But I knew that if I took it day by day, the next step would eventually reveal itself. This was deeply known, because I practiced it, every time I took a breath, every time I took a walk. So I started taking longer walks. In the absence of seeing friends, going to movies and restaurants, I walked. And began to sense a powerful energy building inside, one that only I could generate, only I could tend to, sensing most vividly while in movement.

Walking the length of the 184.5 mile C&O towpath (plus 40 extra miles from out and back sections), was a plan that emerged gradually. I didn’t initially intend to do the whole thing. The first goal was to walk the 60 miles from Georgetown, DC to Harpers Ferry, WV. After extensive planning, AirBnB reservations, buying supplies like a daypack, and multitudes of electrolyte powder packets, I was ready, and highly anticipating the beginning.

My Ride

On the first day late last June, my dear friend Matt finished his night shift as a medical resident, and drove to pick me up at 6:30 am. I had procured almond bars and made iced chai for us- sweet, cold, crisp treats so very early in the morning, as he drove me toward the trailhead. His old blue Mustang, cranky and humming, always feeling like something was loose and rattling or whining from years and years of use. And yet, it reliably took us toward the river.

Along the way we talked about the night shift, my plans and preparation, about our insights from the week, easily gliding from one topic to another. The early morning air was still cool, and the sun rays were the purest yellow gold. Matt asked how many miles I planned to do that day. “20…?” I said, almost asking myself for permission. I’d never walked that distance before, and anticipated the summer heat that would meet me on the path. He almost laughed from surprise at my answer, impressed. I was used to doing brave things, but rarely could I cast off worry, or self-doubt as I prepared for action. This morning though, the excitement of something completely new, shielded me from the worst doubts. This morning, golden sunlight, the humming mustang and my dear friend, ushered me forward. We parked in an illegal loading zone near Georgetown boathouse, snapped some quick photos and said our cheerful and jittery goodbyes.

Those very first steps were generative and mundane all at once. Immediately my dad’s presence came into focus. He was showing up in the chirping birds and the calm deepness of the river. He was there, on some invisible plane, and my body was awake and alive and walking.

The rush of feelings came from a hyperawareness of meaning in this moment. Being alive while my parents were not. That they had left the world and I remained, determined to craft some purpose and joy while here. But I didn’t always know how. I had the sense that life is so very fragile. It’s full of possibility, though sometimes those possibilities are hidden.

Expanding View

While walking, the colors around me were warm and vivid and my view instantly expanded. The way the sun hit the rusted metal of old railroad bridges overhead. Pockets of tall yellow verbascum appearing as unruly guideposts. I was fueled by the mile markers too, stamping slow and steady progress. And by the fleeting connection with strangers who I passed on bikes or jogging. I wondered how far they were going, and how often they visited the towpath. I often put my mask up as we passed, though the briefness of our outside encounter probably meant we didn’t need to. But out of caution, and consideration I did so. These masks, both a sad reminder of the pandemic spreading in our country, and the limits of communicating non-verbally, with covered faces.

After four hours of walking, time began to feel sluggish, my feet ached, my legs stiffening as the heat settled into the creases and corners of my joints and my lungs, the air thick around me. After 12 miles of walking I stopped to buy myself lunch at an overpriced outside cafe near Great Falls. Just sitting, and letting my feet rest was medicine. I asked for a pitcher of water, thinking this would be my chance to refill my three bottles, and ensure I would be hydrated through the muggy afternoon, and the miles that remained. My waiter looked confused, and said that wouldn’t be possible. Perhaps he had decided they were too fancy to just leave a pitcher of water on a table. And so instead I asked for refill upon refill. Gulping down the icy water, and pouring some of it into my own bottles from the crystal glass, shoring up my supply. My endive salad was tasty, but pathetically small. There were possibly four pieces of lettuce on the plate, arranged like flower petals. But it didn’t phase me and my body, which surged with excitement at thoughts of what was to come.

The miles that followed that afternoon were among the most spiritual and humbling. 13, 14, 15 miles and my legs kept going, charged and strong. This section of the trail was lush, with large, rich, green leaves, hanging over the reflective canal. The earth on the banks, a cinnamon brownish red dirt, holding the stories and history of passage, travel and trade for nearly two centuries.

Dad Bird

It was on this section of trail, between miles 13 and 20, I spotted three great blue herons. Having them in my sight brought an unmistakable connection with my Dad. This bird reminded me of him somehow. Solitary, meticulous, strange, lanky and yet purposeful. I could spot a heron flying from far away, not only from its size, but because of its massive wingspan. Its movements were slower, its wings motioned up and down, with confidence, precision, and a smoothness, that I can’t really call flapping. It could glide through the air, covering ground swiftly with natural poise and minimal effort. The first one was standing still at the banks of the canal. Stick legs, pointy beak, puffed up angular body, such a strange creature. It stood regal and stoic, a rippling reflection at the water’s edge, its only companion.

Great Heron and its reflection on the banks of the canal

Why did this sighting matter? Why did this bird feel magical to me? I didn’t know then. But I knew my grief was often a heavy lump in my throat, brimming just below the surface of my outward actions. Sadness, guilt, a knowing that things can and do go terribly wrong, and that we lose people we love. This was all tightly knotted inside. And sitting with those truths over the past several months, I suppose I knew that I needed the magic. This awkward bird, that happened to be commonplace in the habitat where I walked, would be claimed as magic, a sign, the gentle nudging from the spirit world to keep going, and that was enough.

My dad was a miserly, solitary guy, who often lived in his head and in his past. A creative to his core, and a self-described tinkerer. A talented guitar and mandolin player, a kite maker. Earlier in his life, he sketched and doodled, did calligraphy and made incredibly dorky comics. I had seen some of his art over the years growing up, because he happened to have hoarding tendencies and saved everything, But I had the both painstaking and slightly heartwarming task of going through every single page with him, as we sorted and packed up his apartment. The daunting role of convincing him to let go of a little art, and random chachkies, that he didn’t use, that were broken, or had remained in boxes for too long. The musty old sketches sat in plastic bins in the wet, dusty basement of his apartment for a decade, along with an exorbitant amount of kite string, tape, and “as seen on TV” gadgets. But in his final months, I witnessed him practice letting go of things with more ease than I anticipated.

During his short battle with cancer, our time together brought into focus the imperfect shapes and edges of our relationship, the tender parts, and the corners I couldn’t yet face. The opportunities for closeness that both of us had missed, the risks we took to build new closeness in his final weeks. These feelings and memories were all a cloak of armor that I had carried with me until this point, and here on my journey I could maybe take them off, piece by piece, and leave the armor of hurt, missed opportunity, distance, and things left unsaid here along the edges of the path. Leave grief like breadcrumbs, littered on the red dirt for the geese to hiss at and devour.

As the day wore on, my hips began to stiffen with a gnawing soreness from so very many steps. My feet throbbed in new places and parts with an acuteness that I hadn’t felt before. I stopped often to stretch or sit and take the weight off. The last miles felt incredibly long, but not endless. I completed them with steady and trusting movement.

In spite of the physical pain, my body was happy to be of use, to carry me. It rejoiced in the simple act, in traversing land, in range of motion, repetition. I was plugged in, listening to upbeat music, cherished albums that had touched me over the years, that seeped into my bones and blood until I had to dance a little. Also accompanied by podcasts that lit up my brain and expanded my understanding of the world and the stories of other humans I share it with. This mental stimulation and digital connection also kept me going.

My dad, Ted Greenstone, being introverted… in the 90s

As I rounded the bend and saw my stopping point coming into view, I felt an incredible sense of relief and accomplishment. I could see the parking lot, and would soon be in an Uber, headed to an AirBnB, to ice my feet and revel in this achievement. But before reaching my exit point, I saw a little piece of magic too. Another heron perched on a log that had fallen and lay diagonally across the now mossy and shallow canal. And the tears came, enough salty drops to fill that old waterway. But the bird did not wait for me to arrive; as I got closer, it abruptly flew away.