A journey of a thousand miles begins here. Lillian Lake photo

“A journey of a thousand miles begins with one step.” (Laozi) This is the common version of this quote, but I prefer this other version: “A thousand-mile journey begins where one stands.”

Recently, I came across this question: “How do you begin to open your closed heart?”. Something happens, nothing happens, but at some point, in the open-our-heart-journey, we acquire an awareness that we have begun. Of course, we may presume we can pinpoint an exact moment, but on the soul level, we probably aren’t as accurate as we think. So much happens in our unconscious being of which we are unaware.

As some of you may remember, I once was an avid runner. I began or ended each day; the time could be slightly different, with a 3.25-mile run. It was just long enough to “get there and back.” One day, on my way up the steepest part of the run, I met a woman running down the hill. In passing, she remarked, “It’s easier downhill.” At the time, I thought she was right.

Following my emergency abdominal surgery, months later, when I had the strength to walk again, my goal was to run again. I felt myself closing up and yet becoming more retrospective. I needed to return to running. First, I stood up out of bed. (You see, why I prefer the second translation of Laozi’s quote.)

I took the tiniest of steps as I progressed toward the door. A few days later, my goal was to reach the end of our driveway. It was a momentous occasion when, with my son’s carved hiking stick, I attempted to walk what I used to run.

It took me three-and-a-quarter hours to walk what I used to run in under 45 minutes. I made it with a huge lesson in tow. Coming down the steep hill required using my abdomen, which I had never noticed when running. The pain was nearly unbearable, leaving me breathless with every few steps. So, I thought, it wasn’t true that running downhill is easier; it’s a matter of perspective and attitude.

Gradually, one slow step at a time became steps made more quickly. As I progressed, I’d run from one light pole to the next, walk between the next two, run again, and so on. Soon I was running more of the journey than walking, eventually running the entire 3.25 miles.

My enthusiasm for running has never become what it once was. I could write an entire column on why I think this is true, but philosophically, I have concluded that my enthusiasm was for escaping something unseen. Recovering from a traumatic experience brought light to that unseen.

Metaphorically, in Forest Gump fashion, we run away from what we fear, consciously or not. Eventually, we stopped running and walked it back. In walking it back, there is more healing and growing more robust physically, perhaps, and for sure, emotionally, and mentally.

How do we begin to open our closed hearts? The “how” isn’t as important as when we begin.