Walking Stick

a race against myself

A Race Against Myself

Once upon a time, when I was in my early twenties, I was hiking a trail in the North Cascade mountains in Washington. It was a hike I’d done many times, and each time, I tried to break my record for how fast I could get to the top. A race against myself. And one that I valued.

On that particular hike, I rounded the bend at full speed, and saw the most beautiful older women, both with long white hair in braids, sitting on a bench, with their heads to the sky, smiling in the dappled sunshine, and holding their walking sticks like royal scepters. It was a queendom I wanted to join so I surrendered my race, and sat down next to them.

They both greeted me and then went back to smiling into the sky.

I looked at their wooden, whittled walking sticks, festooned with leather, ribbons, feathers, crystals, bones, handles worn to a shine, letters carved in the wood. “Those are great walking sticks,” I said. “Did you make them?”

They looked at their sticks, smiling, and then at me and one said, “Yes.”

The other one added, “They’re our old friends.”

Privately I was glad that my own two feet were still stable and young. But I said, “This can be tricky terrain, especially up at the top,” as if they needed some sort of placation.

They looked at each other then, smiled, and one of them said, “Oh we never get to the top.”

And the other one said, “And we’ve been taking this walk since we were your age.”

Walk, I thought. Not hike? I mean, it’s at least an intermediate hike. As if their walking sticks were measuring sticks. A walk…that was new to my gazelle-paced brain.

And then the finale. One which I will never, ever forget:

At the same time they said, “And each time we make sure we do it slower and slower.”

I think about those women all the time. They’re likely no longer alive because that was over three decades ago. I think about them when I am rushing through my house for no good reason. Saying things like, “I’m trying my best!” And I catch myself laughing. To whom am I making this loud, exasperated, desperate declaration? Just who is it that I’m talking to? Who is it that is telling me that I’m not trying my best? And frankly, what’s wrong with not doing our best sometimes? Why do we need to get to the top? Why do we have to get there quickly? Why the hike not the walk? Again: a race against myself.

I’ve just returned from a six-week book tour, for my new book about uncovering our wonder. I’ve been across this country from sea to shining sea. I’ve seen countless old friends, family, Haven Writing Retreat alums, old teachers, authors I respect immensely, and readers. Even though during my events I was able to slow down and be in the message of my book, doing a tour like that requires a lot of coordination of moving pieces and sometimes that sort of coordination requires racing. Flights get delayed. Traffic happens. Last minute bookings present themselves. There’s a flood in the basement back home. There’s an illness in the family. Any author on book tour knows this racing. Racing to make connections at airports, racing to beat traffic to get to events on time. Racing to check into hotel rooms to put together some sort of acceptable Zoom “set” for podcasts, just in the nick of time. Giving up an extra hour of much-needed sleep to someone who needs your ear and only your ear, and you can’t imagine not saying, “of course I’m here for you. Call me.”

I tried not to race. I budgeted my time well. I didn’t fit too much into each day like I tend to, especially since I live in the woods. Access to state-of-the-art theater, premiere architecture, Michelin star restaurants, and major museums just aren’t Montana’s main forte. We have great cultural events here for sure. And people show up, because we’re hungry for them. I’m doing my own book launch in Whitefish on June 6^th with our wonderful literary journal, The Whitefish Review and it’s going to be truly wonder-full. Of this I am sure. (Stop on by if you’re in the valley! 101 Central. 6:30!) But the bulk of the greatness here is, in most cases, outside. So usually when I am in a major city, I exhaust myself with every piece of artistic adventure that I can muster. Not this time because…

…In the midst of the tour, and yes I was racing, I sprained my ankle. So I hobbled around major cities hither and yon, being forced to go slowly. It became like an anti-race with myself. I started to live the call to action in my book. Slow down. Get your head out of your screens. Make space around you for wonder. Instead of trying to fit in that one last thing, relinquish it. Sit on a bench. Watch children. Lift your head to the sky. Rest. I even started thinking how nice it would be to have a walking stick.

I found myself taking out my little notebook and writing lists of what I saw and heard. Not to put them in an essay or a book. Not to try to make them serve a purpose. And you can bet that I want to show you my list. To make them add up. I am looking at my purse across the room where that notebook lives, tempted. But the whole point was to not having my lists add up. Just being present with my senses and staying present by moving my pen. Not just thinking: lilacs. And wanting to smell them. And wanting to compare the way they smell to something else. And wanting to sketch them. Find words for them. To add up. Instead, just behold the lilacs in the wind. Write “LILAC.” Smile at them. Dare myself not to smell them. Breathe in the scents the wind carried even if it was the smell of a diesel truck instead. Call it its own kind of holy. (Still, who can resist smelling a lilac. I smelled plenty of them across the country. But not for any other purpose but wonder.)

I’m back in Montana now. My journal is full of little moments. Tiny things. My mind is full of little moments. Little holy moments of sitting in wonder—curiosity, but mostly awe. Thanks to my ankle. Across the country, I watched this book give its salve over and over again, and I watched myself be in presence to its salve. I was just the messenger. And on my last night, after being with so many wonder-full people, and in conversation with such wonder-full conversation partners in Lee Woodruff, Amy Scher, Shelley Paxton, Val Haller, Sheila Hamilton, Brooke Warner, (my editor and publisher and friend!), Bill Kenower, and my favorite modern-day poet, the great Naomi Shihab Nye who is a master of writing about tiny things that become holy… On that last night I found myself uttering these words to a friend when she asked, “How has the tour been? You must be fried.” I surprised myself with my response. “It’s actually been easy being me. It’s been like…too easy. Like I’m not trying. I mean it’s a hustle getting from hither and yon, especially with a sprained ankle, and especially because I take the stairs, thanks to my severe claustrophobia. I mean…I’ve held on to a lot of banisters and longed for a walking stick or pair of ski poles. But…I guess I’m finally old enough to give myself permission to just…be…me. And have it be…easy. It feels like cheating.”

I told her about the women on the bench in the Cascades in the early 90s, and she said, “It’s not a race. It’s not even a hike. Maybe life is a slow walk in the woods. And sometimes we limp. Why not have support? Why not make it beautiful?”

The woods around my house are my happiest place. And this time of year, the arnica is in bloom. This is the time when I gather arnica to make my salve that I give for presents all year. I gave my arnica salve from last year’s harvest to each of my conversation partners on the road, in fact. (And boy did I need it on my ankle!) The woods are calling me. But I am still limping. I’m sort of scared of the woods, such unstable footing. I am about to lead two retreats. I can’t afford to have a re-sprained ankle. Still, I’m not going to let that stop me.

I figure: The woods are full of things to trip on, and so are the woods of life. But there’s no way I’m not going out into it, even if I have to go slowly. Even if I sit on a lot of benches. There’s nothing wrong with going slowly. And surely.

So here’s what I just caught myself thinking:

I need a walking stick.

I think that before I pick arnica, I’ll find a good one from a fallen branch. And maybe someday, it will have a shiny wooden handle.

Here’s one of the podcasts that I’ve done recently. While my book The Wild Why: Stories and Teachings to Uncover Your Wonder is not a book for writers, I get asked to go on writing podcasts. I have a book about writing coming out next year. This is a book for everyone. But it’s true that I am a writer and a writing teacher and writing retreat leader, so I’ve learned some things along the way. If you’re interested in writing, I hope this will give you some help. May it serve as your walking stick as you navigate the unsteady terrain of the written word.

Haven Writing Retreats

AND if you want your wonder back this fall, I have a few spots left on all three of my Haven Writing Retreats in Montana. Montana is the best wonder-maker I know!

June 11 – June 15 , 2025 – Full
June 18 – June 22, 2025 – Full
September 3 – 7, 2025 – Now Booking
October 15 – 19, 2025 – Now Booking
October 29 – November 2, 2025 – Now Booking

Email me to set up an introductory phone call: info@lauramunson.com

Fall is a spectacular time of year to be in Montana!

Buy it today at your favorite local bookstore!

THE WILD WHY: Stories and Teachings to Uncover Your Wonder

“Rich in lessons to help us lean into wonder and find our inner authentic voice, this book is a soul guide leading us to beauty and self-expression.”—Maria Shriver’s Sunday Paper

“Wonder—for Laura Munson, for me, maybe for you too—is nothing less than a religion. It has that much to offer. In The Wild Why, Munson makes the case for curiosity with conviction and beauty.”—Kelly Corrigan, New York Times best-selling author of Tell Me More and host of the Kelly Corrigan Wonders podcast