Lately, I’ve found myself drawn, almost obsessively, to the idea of walking as an art practice. What began as a passing curiosity has spiralled into something deeper—a full immersion, even a sort of possession. When I stumble upon an idea like this, it’s as if it takes over, urging me to follow every trail of thought and explore every nook and cranny. I want to know it all, to gather every perspective, to soak in each nuance. And, of course, this time has been no different.

But in the last few days, I’ve felt myself beginning to unravel, feeling a bit untethered. There’s a disorientation that happens when you plunge too far down the rabbit hole without a lifeline. I haven’t meditated in days, too entangled in a swirl of thoughts to find my footing. In the throes of this obsession, I’d overlooked the need to return to centre, to ground myself in something familiar. So, today, feeling especially scattered, I decided to take a contemplative walk—not to find anything specific, but to recalibrate, to find my footing in my own surroundings.

Rebecca Solnit once wrote, “Exploring the world is one of the best ways of exploring the mind, and walking travels both terrains.” These words felt almost prophetic as I set out, wandering through the familiar streets of my town. Walking, I’ve come to understand, is far more than a means of physical movement; it’s a way of navigating the inner landscapes as well. There’s a rhythm in walking that seems to match the cadence of thought, a gentle pace that lets ideas settle, reform, and connect in unexpected ways. Walking “brings the world into the mind and the mind into the world,” as Solnit says. By moving through space, we create new connections—bridging physical and conceptual distances, layering the ordinary with new associations.

As I walked, I felt myself slip into a state of presence. Each step became an invitation to notice the details—the scent of someone’s breakfast drifting from a nearby window, the faint aroma of a passerby’s perfume, the sounds of morning greetings exchanged across the street. This walk was not about arriving anywhere; it was about encountering, opening myself to whatever the world offered. I found myself weaving in and out of memory and reflection, each sensation adding a new layer to the map of my mind that seemed to unfold in real time. In these moments, walking became an act of place-making, both in the physical world and within my own psyche.

An idea resurfaced that’s been with me for a long time, something central to how I want to live. It’s the concept of the “art of living.” Thinkers like Lin Yutang come to mind, who spoke of life not as a matter of productivity or self-help but as an art form in its own right. For Yutang, beauty lies in the everyday—the taste of a meal, the joy of leisure, the warmth of daily interactions. There’s something revolutionary about this approach in a world that often reduces life to tasks, checklists, and consumer choices. Embracing life as an art form, I realise, is a radical act, a quiet rebellion. It’s a choice to live with care and intention, to savour the mundane as though it holds hidden gems, to paint each day with attention.

Walking through the town today instead of seeking out nature felt like the right choice. It kept me grounded in the rhythm of daily life—the school runs, the brief exchanges between neighbours, the quiet routines of people in my community. Life, I thought, isn’t confined to galleries or performance spaces. The street is a stage, the familiar is a canvas, and each passerby or momentary scent becomes part of the art of the everyday. There was a moment when a woman passed by, her perfume lingering in the air like a delicate thread of memory, creating a scent funnel. A few metres later, the aroma of someone’s breakfast floated in, weaving with her scent into a fleeting experience, a sensory composition. These moments are so transient, yet they remind me that art is all around us, if we choose to notice, in the layers of experience we often rush through. To slow down, to truly see and feel—this is the essence of the art of living.

As the walk drew to a close, I found myself reflecting on the importance of grounding, of creating a framework that holds me steady, even as I dive into new ideas. Inspiration, I’m learning, is a beautiful force, but it can also unmoor us if we aren’t careful. Practices like meditation, simple rituals, and intentional pauses are essential—they allow me to explore deeply without losing myself entirely. Grounding doesn’t mean stifling curiosity; rather, it’s about creating a balance that lets me explore without coming untethered. These practices remind me not to be swept away by my obsessions but to integrate them, to let them shape me without overtaking me.

Today’s walk was a reminder that life itself can be art and that each moment offers a chance to craft something meaningful. It’s a call to let go of self-improvement mindsets and the endless push for productivity and to embrace a way of being that celebrates presence and depth. The art of living is about finding texture and meaning in the rhythm of daily moments, about seeing the beauty in small gestures, ordinary exchanges, and everyday sensations.

So here’s to living artfully, to savouring each walk, each conversation, and each meal as if it were part of a larger masterpiece in progress. It’s an invitation to reclaim life from productivity, consumerism, and outcome-driven thinking to craft a way of being that feels authentic, rich, and fully present. To see the world as both a canvas and a collaborator, and to cultivate a life that feels like a work of art in the making.