After taking a long time to start walking, my daughter now refuses to do anything else. She’s not yet two, but has the strength of a yak and the tenacity of a cockroach. I discover this anew each morning as she revolts against being placed in her buggy like I’m shoving her into a pizza oven, thrashing and flailing until, eventually, I give up and abandon any long-range plans and resign myself to walking the same short path from our house to our nearest playground. I say short, but this journey is vast and long, because my daughter likes to take her time.
The fact is she walks slower than any human being I’ve ever known. This is clearly not her fault. She’s only been at it for six months and, in fairness, her legs are shorter than my forearms. But, aside from the logistics, I think I sense a philosophical inclination. She stops after most steps, as if consumed with some larger pleasure at the state of walking itself. Time warps around her. Life contemplates itself.
