Walking is the natural recreation for a man who desires not absolutely to suppress his intellect but to turn it out to play for a season, with many detours and way stations, and here we all are at one point or another. It's not a question of superior or inferior taste, merely a question of which detour we are on at the moment. Getting there (as they say) is not important; the wandering about in the wilderness or in the olive groves or in the bayous is the whole point.Above all do not lose your desire to walk. Everyday I walk myself into a state of well being and walk away from every illness. I have walked myself into my best thoughts and I know of no thought so burdensome that one cannot walk away from it. But by sitting still, and the more one sits still, the closer one comes to feeling ill ... 

if one keeps on walking everything will be alright.You may also want to bring the practice of wigging into your life. Half slow walking (going uphill) and freely surrendered, speedy jogging (going downhill), it may become your preferred meditation posture or form of dance. The goal of the practice is not to condition the body aerobically; that happens as a natural byproduct. 

The goal of the practice is to open to and merge with the breath, letting your natural, surrendered breath determine how fast or slow your body moves, to stay as loose and relaxed as possible, to let every part of the body move as fluidly as possible, to surrender to the sensation and energies of the body as you keep playing with balance, to keep emptying the mind and staying in clear perception of vision and sound. Full-bodied breath comes easier during a wog than during any other activity. Sensations can be felt through the entire body. Vision can become very clear, and the mind can stay very empty.

after reaching there I sat down and my love to her poured out more and more, and, lo, she flew down to a stump, and then to my knee. I knew beyond a shadow of doubt that the important thing is the love that goes out from oneself

birds are not meant to be caged, that's all. Their feathers are too bright, their songs too sweet and wild. So you let them go, or when you open the cage to feed them they somehow fly out past you. And the part of you that knows it was wrong to imprison them in the first place rejoices, but still, the place where you live is that much more drab and empty for their departure.