My conversation with "The Walking Monk"

One day in June, my daughter and I were out for a run when we passed, not once, but three times, two strangers walking along our route. The third time, one stopped us to ask for directions. He told us he was walking across Canada, and handed us a business card. My daughter suggested I email him, which I did. Sometime later Bhaktimarga Swami, ,  and I connected via phone.  His blog is  "The Walking Monk"

The light bulb idea 
I caught up with Bhaktimarga Swami, commonly known as "The Walking Monk",  by phone shortly after he completed his fourth “Can Walk” across Canada. Our conversation transcended religious doctrine, dogma and belief systems.

Swami, born in Ontario as John Peter Vis, adopted the Eastern monastic lifestyle of the Hare Krishna movement some forty years ago.  In 1996, he  completed his first pilgrimage across Canada, journeying from west to east. Since that time, he has completed three more cross country treks, each time travelling in the opposite direction, and along different routes.

He conceived the idea to walk across Canada one day while walking in a ravine in Toronto, an activity he undertook initially to rehabilitate low back problems.  “It was almost like a light bulb lit up,” he told me of the moment that led him to walk across the country, “as a monk might do it; (to) travel kind of lightly, and meet people along the way, spend enough time in a place, as long as it takes to milk a cow, as we say in our tradition”,  before continuing the journey.

More than a metaphor

In many religious traditions, the journey is a metaphor for the growth of the soul as it enters more profoundly into an encounter with the Divine. Since Swami has crossed the country on foot multiple times, I asked him if walking is more than a metaphor for him.

Not surprisingly, it is. “It’s a natural position of the spirit or soul to wander in this world and to walk it in wonder and in appreciation. So (wandering) puts you in that spot where you need to be, that place of humility which is the basis of success in life.”

Swami explained that walking along busy highways with vehicles barreling past or trekking through remote and beautiful landscapes is a lesson in detachment. “You learn to take it all in, the heat, the wind, the rain, the cold, the black flies, the mosquitoes, attention by the public, no attention, traffic – with all of that, you learn detachment.”  These external factors, along with the physical discomfort that comes from walking thirty to forty-five kilometers per day, and the spiritual challenges of facing your own deficiencies, help a person learn disentanglement from this world.

We discussed the idea of detachment in light of today’s culture, with its emphasis on self and acquisition. At the core of the self “there is this passion to move about and pick up on all the little nuances the world has to offer”. We shared the belief that our passions may become misdirected, and we may find ourselves walking in a direction that leads us away from our deepest yearnings.

The role of the mantra 

Chanting the mantra is an essential part of Swami’s journey, helping him to keep the spiritual in his midst.  “God is present in sound,” said Swami. “Hallowed be thy name. So, the name, the sound is sacred. We,” by which Swami meant the Krishna and Christian religious traditions, “have the same understanding…The Absolute or the Divine is there with you in their sound.”

The word “mantra” comes from two Sanskrit words, “mana” which means the mind, and “tara” which means to free.  Chanting the mantra frees the mind “so that your mind is not on the acquisitions you’re trying to achieve.” The mantra “pulls you out of that mode“, illuminating the beauty all around, and providing spiritual strength; “it keeps you a bit on your toes, otherwise the forces of temptation could get to you.”

Humility from standing under

Our hour-long conversation ended with Swami providing an exegesis of the verb “to understand” that he picked up from a Catholic priest. In order to understand, it is important to go under, to stand humbly and look up, then “you understand your real position.”

Walking “brings about a lot of revelation and epiphany about our smallness, our insignificance and about how much bigger the universal machinery is than our self. Getting to the point of taking the humble stance is the end product” of the long and arduous spiritual journey, which, I am sure Swami would agree, is always a walk in progress.

The wheels of life go 'round and 'round

What kind of wheels do you have? Do they tell your story? Can wheels teach us anything about life? 

From strollers to bikes

Photo courtesy of John Kasawa
at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

My first set of wheels preceded my earliest memories. I was a babe in a stroller with my mother pushing me through time and space, introducing me to the world, and the world to me.

My tricycle was an empowering set of wheels that allowed me to chase after my older sisters on their bicycles, until they reached the corner at the end of the street. The corner was my “stop” sign, and it meant head for home.

If the tricycle was empowering, bicycles gave me a whole new experience of freedom. From the shiny, blue bicycle I received on my seventh birthday to the 10-speed road bike that carried me through the high school years, bicycles opened up the world to me, enabling me to travel around corners and tackle steeper roads.

Image courtesy of zirconicusso
at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

From cool cars to mini vans

During my university years, I drove around in my sisters’ classic 1967 white Ford Mustang, a car that my father bought for a song, and lovingly restored.  Just when I thought I had arrived at the height of coolness, cruising around Vancouver in the Mustang, life moved on, and with it, my sisters, who sold their car.

Tony, a blue Toyota Corolla, entered my life when my younger sister arrived at university.  While the Corolla was not nearly as cool as the Mustang, owning a car was something of a status symbol, and I felt pretty special. However, life continued its forward march. I married, leaving Tony behind with my little sister who drove it for another two decades.

My husband and I started out with Homer Honda, his zippy, copper-coloured Civic hatchback. It was small enough that he could push it up a steep driveway on a winter’s morning as I gave it the gas, and nearly asphyxiated him. It was fun and sporty; the perfect car for a young, carefree couple ready to rock on down the highway.

Image courtesy of mapichai
at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

With the birth of our second child, we graduated to a Civic Sedan. It wasn’t long before two children were three, the Civic became an Accord, and we bought a second car, a red Mazda Protégé to transport kids to activities. Before long, we caved into the pressure from three kids cramped in the back seat, and “upgraded” to the mini-van we named Dream Chaser.  We had traded “cool” for the meaningful responsibilities and rewarding relationships of family life.

When I was twenty something, I found it amusing that “old” (fifty something) men drove around in sports cars. I get it now, being fifty something myself. Middle age is one of those quick stops on the highway of life when we can comfortably own a sporty car. So while I still drive a sedan, there is also a coupe at my disposal.

Wheels of the future

It’s hard to say what wheels are in my future. Maybe my trike will reappear as a motorized scooter, or my two-wheeler as a wheelchair with someone pushing me once again.

From stroller to coupe, my wheels have corresponded to the phases of my life.  They have been symbolic of the transitions from infancy and dependency to adulthood and responsibility. With each transition, there came a developing awareness of personhood and life.  And just as a wheel once set in motion revolves until it runs out of steam or someone applies the brakes, my life and my understanding of life continue to evolve.

From the empowerment that came with madly pedaling my tricycle to the joy of pursuing my children’s dreams in a mini-van, from the skinned knees of falling off my bicycle to a car crash that left me shaken, wheels symbolically tell the story of my life, representing its ups and downs, the easy drives and the tough journeys. Rounding out corners and expanding boundaries, wheels chart our progress from beginning to end, reminding us that nothing is permanent and that change is always certain.