My New Year’s walk: About the great happiness of walking into nothing

If you’re reading this, I’m probably outside again.

I’ve always loved going. As a child, I knew every park, forest and hill in my hometown of Wuppertal. I walked to school, counting the many steps of the many stairs for which my city is quite famous. Again and again I found new secret routes through backyards and underpasses or along disused train tracks.

On vacation I ran for hours on dikes and on North Sea beaches. I once knew the island of Langeoog by heart, at least parts of the Bergisches Land. And I was the only one in my class who was happy about hiking days in the Eifel – in November. Later, at university, I did my laps in the gray Ruhr area during free periods. At night I walked home from parties. I could have called a taxi. But why?

I now live in Hamburg, in a district with allotments, small canals and parks, with a network of gravel paths and tiny paths running through them. A paradise for walkers like me. Every direction is open to me here.

Of course, every new year for me begins with a walk. Sleep in, have breakfast, tie your shoes, and then get out. Sometimes I go with the family, sometimes alone. This year I’ll probably borrow a dog.

What attracts me to walking? Not very much, and that’s probably the secret. Some people praise the meditative nature of walking and breathing. Some colleagues conjure up the brilliant sentences that they came up with along the way. Others have upgraded at some point, from walking to walking, with a cane and fitness tracker. Or “use the time” and listen to podcasts on the go.

For me, walking was always just the great joy of running into nothing. Not knowing exactly where you will end up and how big the round will be. When I go out, I don’t take a pedometer or headphones with me. I simply open the door and enter a magical gap in the day. Where essentially NOTHING happens.

I walked in the forest
like that in front of me,
and nothing to look for,
that was my meaning,

Goethe once wrote about a walk at the end of which the walker digs up a little flower and gently carries it home. I don’t even need a flower.

The little souvenirs in my head that every walk inevitably brings are enough for me: a bit of birdsong, wind, sun or rain, people with dogs, robins in the hedge, daycare children in playgrounds. Just enough details to keep the boredom away from your brain.

But otherwise: luxurious uneventfulness. And it’s also full of options: you can spontaneously turn north or south, to windward or leeward, you can walk or sneak, take a friend with you, have a coffee or just relax in your thoughts. Which usually sort themselves out as you walk.

The emptiness, and therefore my happiness, is particularly great on January 1st. You’re still tired, Hamburg lies at your feet in the drizzle, glass from New Year’s Eve cracks under your shoes. But as we walk, the day seems open and promising – and anything is possible. As if someone had changed the path and the time. Back to go. New attempt.

No matter how exhausting or annoying the past year may have been, the next one can only be better. And even though you don’t have a plan, you already have plans: What would you like to achieve or do better? Who should you finally call or, better yet, visit? Which cities are traveling to? And where was the guitar? It could also be dusted off again.

If you can’t believe how good a spontaneous walk feels, open your door on New Year’s Day. If necessary, ignore the weather. Turn left, right at the next intersection, then left again. Keep it up. After half an hour they will end up somewhere you probably never wanted to go. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll think it’s great.