The Power of Walking
April 8, 2026
Writer: Story Sossen
Editor: Jordan Knipsel
Looming, dark clouds make for a pretty spectacular sunset.
“It’s going to be a good one,” I think to myself.
Blue skies might be pretty, but experience tells me clouds make the sky come alive. Tonight I am on my nightly walk to the public dock. I pass my favorite cafe, cross the road I’ve run hundreds of times, and head down Quogo Neck Lane. I have walked these roads for years, sometimes listening to music, sometimes chatting with my grandparents or friends, but mostly with my thoughts and memories as my companion.
The first time I ventured out on my own was during COVID. I wandered over to York Avenue and headed south. Thirsty, I stepped into Black Star Cafe, and while waiting in line, noticed a door at the back of the bakery and glimpsed a sliver of green. How could this be? In NYC, a private outdoor area is so rare. But there it was, a patch of grass with outdoor seating. No matter how small, that was my first independent discovery, and the sense of accomplishment was exhilarating, something I had always craved.
On a similar walk nearly four years later, a quote from Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass suddenly came into focus. “Not I, nor anyone else, can travel that road for you. / You must travel it by yourself. / It is not far. It is within reach.” I’d never taken to heart the call to action hidden in the simplicity of the last two lines. The potential for taking control of one’s life lies within each of us, and doing so isn’t lonely. Rather, it emboldens our own independence and uniqueness. Walking has provided me time and space to reflect on literature and myself, with deeper clarity.
My friend once told me, “I’d like to spend 24 hours as you. Your brain is very romantic.” She was talking about my worldview, but she tapped into the reason walking remains my favorite mode of transportation, albeit the slowest. Observing what’s around me centers me, whether it is flowers growing through a crack in the pavement or sunlight hitting a building’s window. Walking is my vehicle for taking in the world, a time for processing both the outside physical landscape and my mental and emotional states within.
Of course, not all walks include deep introspection. Over the years, I’ve greeted thousands of strangers. Simple “good mornings” or “it’s such a nice day, isn’t it?” have sent positive endorphins into the world. Studies, including one helmed by a Canadian psychologist, have confirmed the lasting positive impact on well-being engendered by these simple interactions. Our voices give us the power to positively affect a stranger’s day. A smile or a hello can be enough. “It is within reach.”
Sylvia Plath’s “The Fig Tree” uses a fig tree as a metaphor for the daunting prospect of choosing a single path for your future. The poem has haunted me since my first reading, several years ago. I questioned the need to choose one passion in life and worried that if we spend our whole lives trying to make the perfect choice, many options will spoil, like Plath’s overripe figs.
Eventually, I realized I didn’t need to choose only one fig. I could collect as many figs as I desired and turn them all into a unique jam, a combination only I could create. I’m a runner, art historian, poet, painter, baker, friend, sister, and daughter. Pursuing all of these allows me to see my personal fig tree distinctively, as I continue to discover myself and the world.
This essay reflects the figs I have collected while walking: independence, a deeper understanding of literature, the ability to observe the world, and an embrace of my community.
As I near the end of Quogue Neck, I see that I was right. It is a good one. A really good one. I see Whitman’s “splendid, silent sun with all his beams full-dazzling.” Clouds and sky cascade in a riot of orange and pinks, blues and white. I fix a picture of the sunset in my mind and turn around for the walk home.
