walking home

work in process//51.

On my first night in Tuscany, I sat down for dinner in a courtyard overlooking distant hills with a handful of people I’d only just met. They were talking about their life transitions—starting a business, leaving a career, ending a marriage, going on a gap year. Everyone, it seemed, was in the middle of something. They looked to me.

“Actually, I’m in a period of stability right now,” I said, surprising myself.

It hadn’t always been so. There’d been the river accident and the aftermath, the tumultuous years of Covid, publishing a second book, perimenopause. None of it terribly terrible but below the ordinary everyday lurked a low-grade uncertainty that kept me on edge.

Matthieu, a French doctor with a boyish grin, pointed to the people at the table next to us. “That’s that table over there, for the stable people,” he said, and we all laughed

Twenty-five of us had traveled from all over the world to be part of a walking and poetry tour of Tuscany led by the Irish poet David Whyte. I’d been calling it a writing retreat in my mind, but few of the other travelers were writers in a professional capacity. Most had come to navigate big changes, for which David’s poems are both a beacon and a balm. Listening to him recite them aloud every morning after breakfast felt like an IV of wisdom straight into the veins, a flame sparked from sun and a shard of glass.

Every day after lunch, we went walking. David, who started his career as a tour guide in the Galapagos and later the Himalaya, is a born walker. Our routes always took us up quiet dirt roads and across fields to a walled Roman town or to some stunning hilltop trattoria or a charming farmhouse for a meal and Chianti served alfresco. No one but David knew in advance what the day’s route had in store—how many miles or where or when we would finish. We were walking to find out.

Isn’t that the definition of adventure and—well—life?

One afternoon we trekked to a stunning 12-century abbey and then on to a hillside trattoria for apertivos, lavish charcuterie boards, and house-made pasta so delicious that any attempt to remain gluten-free was promptly and guiltlessly abandoned. After dinner, we were so stuffed and it was such a gorgeously warm evening, with hints of summer, that two of my new friends and I decided to walk home. Well, not home—the 11th century agriturismo where we were staying was six or seven miles away—but as far as we could get before the group’s vans scooped us up.

The sun was slowly setting, casting the rumpled countryside in that famous, golden Tuscan light. We walked three across down an empty dirt road, swinging our arms and legs into a steady rhythm while talking about—what else?—personal transitions. My Dutch friend had left her marriage after years of circling her ex’s orbit and was creating a new life for herself. My Spanish friend was a career coach turned award-winning poet. We all wanted to live more creative, connected and purposeful lives, with less hustle and more heart.

I love a good after-dinner walk. The fading light casts deep shadows and there’s both an urgency and peacefulness to the coming night. You want to walk forever, but you know you can’t, so you’re even more grateful for the time you have. This one was so magical—walking and talking with new friends as we dropped into a shadowy valley, our summer legs dusty from the dirt road, suffused with the delicious, childlike freedom of being out after dark—I knew I’d never forget it.

It would be the moment I remembered best from the whole trip, one, perhaps, for all time.

It was on that walk that I began to realize, and articulate, that I am in a transition. According to Zen Buddhism, we all are, all the time. Nothing is permanent; everything is always changing. I’d been navigating this shift quietly for two years but hadn’t wanted to name it, at least not out loud. Isn’t that always how it goes? The thing you can’t say is the work you’re called to do.

The change was from running as Running, as a public pursuit, an outward-facing identity, back to running as running, a private, creative practice—the way I’ve always run since I was very young. Simple, unadorned. Just running. And some days it felt not even like running. It felt like bike riding or exploring. It felt, especially on that mild spring evening in Tuscany, like walking.

Over the course of the week, I spoke more openly about this shift to my new friends. This was a group of deep listeners. Poetry teaches you that, especially David’s. One morning he read his poem “Just Beyond Yourself” (listen here). It spoke so directly, and poignantly, to my transition—and everyone’s—that I felt like toppling off my chair and lying in the grass, absorbing every syllable and nuance through my skin, bathing in it.

Just beyond
yourself.

It’s where
you need
to be.

Half a step
into
self-forgetting
and the rest
restored
by what
you’ll meet.

There is a road
always beckoning.

When you see
the two sides
of it
closing together
at that far horizon
and deep in
the foundations
of your own
heart
at exactly
the same
time,
that’s how
you know
it’s the road
you
have
to follow.

That’s how
you know
it’s where
you
have
to go.

That’s how
you know
you have
to go.

That’s
how you know.

Just beyond
yourself,
it’s
where you
need to be.

All week, I went back and forth. I love running! I don’t need to let it go! I’m overthinking this! Why make such a big deal out of one moment in Italy? But it was more than a moment, I knew. It was where I was going. It was what lay just beyond myself. It’s where I need to be.

I don’t what this will look like going forward. I’m sure I’ll still run; I am still running. But I hope it will go back to running as running. Not for image, identity, nor worth or value. Not out of pressure to perform, obligation or obsession, but as true expression. I know it will be just as wild, maybe wilder, and free. I’m sure I will still go too far and get home after dark, and I won’t always know where I’m going. It know it will involve writing stories and walking down dusty roads on summer evenings, more new friends, more slowing down just because, more listening, more spontaneous apertivos in a village cafe at 5 pm after walking through a rainstorm, talking the whole way.

That night on the road, headlights appeared behind us, turning us our trio into long, gangly shadows. David and the vans. We climbed in, only a little reluctant. We were leaving something of our old selves behind that night to make room for the new road that lay ahead, beckoning.

sending you a big smile,

katie

---

REGISTER NOW FOR MOUNTAIN FLOW CAMP, SEPTEMBER 5-8, 2025

I’m so excited to share what I learned in Italy with you at High Camp Hut, outside Telluride, CO, in September. If you’ve been hesitating on Mountain Flow because of the high-altitude running, rest assured we’ll mostly be hiking at this altitude. Come learn how to move with the mind of mountains and bring nature’s energy into your writing and creative life. You can expect mornings on the trails—LOTS of walking with new friends!—and afternoons of inspiration, writing, cozy hut time, forest bathing, and yoga. Cost is $2600, double occupancy, all inclusive. Space is limited.

Register with a friend by June 1 and you’ll both get $100 off!