In Reference to the Philosophy of Walking
One should sit as little as possible; don’t trust any thought that arises while seated, any thought that lacks the participation of the muscles in their joyful movement. All prejudices stem from the gut. As I’ve said before, the true sin against the Holy Spirit is to remain immobile.”
— Friedrich Nietzsche, Ecce Homo
Frederic Gros, The Philosophy of Walking, p. 17
In this age, the things we do in the name of being "healthy"—or more accurately, being "perfect and well"—seem to know no bounds. As I’ve often pointed out, the distillation of human sciences into bite-sized pieces of verbal data, easily accessed by the masses, has brought both societal awareness and its own burdens. Chief among these burdens is the constant impulse to find fault with ourselves, to feel the need to continuously "update" our being.
We are crushed beneath the weight of knowledge that we haven’t fully internalized, all the while imagining ourselves as nothing more than a collection of things in need of fixing. I’m not about to pivot here with the cliché phrase, “But you are wonderful just as you are.” Though such reassurances have their place, you’ve likely experienced firsthand that they don’t function effectively in overcoming the deep-rooted conditioning lodged within our unconscious.
When we try to change our thought patterns using only thoughts themselves, we trap ourselves in a vicious cycle. Sitting still, lost in thought, leaves our mind disconnected from the body’s support.
Could it be that the brain doesn’t want to be isolated from the body?
Could it be that it longs to invite the entire neural network into the act of thinking?
(After all, we don’t have definitive proof that the mind is solely produced by the brain—though for now, we may assume so.)
When we move, we transition into a state that we could never predict or anticipate while we’re seated. From the stillness of thought, moving may seem pointless—after all, we humans are easily seduced by inertia. We wander and get lost in the currents of neurotransmitters, tiring ourselves in the process. We rarely think that our whole body wants to participate in this movement, and we leave our body starved for it.
I’m not looking to blame anyone for this. The rapid advancements in technology, coupled with the well-orchestrated direction of our lives, have left us motionless without our conscious awareness. When I speak like this, people sometimes feel overwhelmed, as if I’m suggesting we should all dance wildly or run every day.
As a dancer and artist, while I do invite people to dance and make space for it regularly, I’ve always been an advocate for simple, everyday movements.
In dance too, I value not just grand and showy gestures, but also the quieter, effortless expressions.
Movements that we don’t overthink—ones that don’t require grand preparations or machines—are accessible to our bodies at any moment. To those who can’t find time to dance or don’t enjoy it, I always suggest, “Go to a concert, take a walk, tidy up your space.” These small, everyday movements can be just as fulfilling.
Bert Hellinger, someone I deeply respect, calls these “everyday acts.”
We’re often caught up in the pressure to do something big, important, or spiritual. Yet existence is inherently simple, and so is movement. We should be able to reflect on the philosophy behind our dance, our body, our movements.
And the best time to do this is while moving, or just after. You’ll soon realize through experience that the "you" before the movement and the "you" after are not the same.
It might take a little effort to push yourself into this realization at first, but eventually, you’ll reach a point where your body will lead you out for a walk or lift you up to dance. What is the purpose of all this? Of course, to feel well.
But if we move with the sole intent of feeling well, we’ll likely end up disappointed. A transactional relationship has already formed between us and the act.
When movement, dance, or any form of physical expression becomes free from expectation, when there is no goal or outcome in mind, that’s when you truly feel your own presence.
“Because during these aimless, quiet walks, once you stop expecting anything from the world, the world, too, offers itself to you. Once you stop asking for anything, everything is given to you, offered freely, a gift without condition.”
— Frederic Gros, The Philosophy of Walking, p. 75
I don’t often speak with bold certainty, but I can say this with confidence:
You will find unassuming peace in a walk, and after a dance, you will truly feel your own existence.