From A to B and back again

Women, Walking: Notes on Lives in Motion
edited by Zahra Ebrahim and Jane Farrow

Toronto: Coach House Press, 2026
$25.95 / 9781552455203

Reviewed by Alison Acheson

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“And we gave thanks to those ancestral matriarchs who generously considered us, knowing we were on our way. Those women followed the natural knowledge of the buffalo matriarchs, who never run from a storm but instead head straight into it, knowing that getting to the other side will shorten the time spent with it.” —Trina Moyan, from “miyo pimohte—Walking in a Good Way.” 

Even if you’re not a regular walker, there’s a strong possibility that at some point in your life, you’ve had to exercise your bipedalism. Perhaps because walking evoked thought, or the motion eased grief or anger. Maybe it was part of a friendship. Or you were heeding a doctor’s orders. Or else, your car broke down…

Women, Walking: Notes on Life in Motion is an anthology, an exploration of some of the reasons: in one case, to come to terms with the fear of walking alone in the dark—a particularly female fear; in another, the walking is to ease giving birth. So many reasons to walk, and reasons for women to walk.

The work is co-edited by Zahra Ebrahim (Messy Cities: Why We Can’t Plan Everything) and Jane Farrow (Any Other Way: How Toronto Got Queer). Both editors have pieces in the collection. The whole is a mix of graphic materials, interviews, and stories and memoir, including a poem by the late Andrea Gibson.

One bit of wonder that stood out for me: learning of “san bu,” meaning the walk—generally post-dinner—that a family takes time to do together. “San bu… [is] not a hike or an act of self-improvement, not about exercise or errands. Instead, san bu is relational, and exquisitely inefficient… [I]t unfolds at the speed of the body’s digestion.” This was a gem in a story by Salena Zhang, “Before You Look Again.” that captures the joy in an ordinary evening during a three-generation walk, a gentle and persistent memory.

In “If I Fall Behind” by Emma Hewitt, there’s a line about walking with friends, the “side by side of it, the way conversations unspool differently… the way silence is allowed.” Lovely prose—the reader will recognize the feeling.

The phrase “going for a walk” surfacedsrepeatedly in this collection; it might have been the sub-title or even title. It’s a phrasing we say, a piece of healing. A cool-down. It can even be a euphemism for leaving—which, in itself, might be a reason to celebrate homecoming.

The goals for the collection, as stated in the introduction, set a high bar. So it’s too easy to set the bar clanging to the ground. There do seem to be more stories about women living in the US of A or the UK than there were stories about women who live outside of the province of Ontario. 

With notable exceptions, so many were in Toronto, in urban settings. (Though the theme of suburban childhood was ubiquitous. As were stories of mothers who walked, immigrant mothers who walked, and mothers who started their own walking clubs.) There was overlap in this collection, with the first two stories going off on the need for headphones—one even claiming the need as a defence against the “over-stimulation” of being headphone-free. I had to re-read that. Headphones seemed an odd place to open, and this was balanced with a different perspective later in the collection. (I recognize that this is my bias for being outside of the walls of my home: I want to partake of the world.) 

There are multiple stories about walking-to-heal—physically or emotionally, or both. Walking out of COVID-19, yes. Inevitable, but well done, by Zalika Reid-Benta. Ann-Marie MacDonald’s contribution, another story of healing to a sense of wholeness, also stands out.

The graphic pieces—drawings and photos—are little jogs off the path: in the case of one, a remembrance of walking in solitude, and in another, a cry to walk together. They add a dimension that connects with the experiential in the text.

In a collection by disparate voices, there is an art to the editorial task of organizing. Judging by some few mentions, I believe the contributors were solicited to add to the collection, as opposed to putting out a general call, with the editors then able to select from the strongest and put together the most breadth of subject and voice.

There are no maritime voices. Perhaps too cold and windy to walk? (Is it ever too cold and windy to walk?) One lone voice from Winnipeg, Sara Udow, manages to walk in cold and wind, and reminds the reader to keep moving. There are fleeting mentions of north: Ombabika, Yellowknife. (Does Thunder Bay count?) No other stories from the prairies, and only two British Columbia voices—Paty Rios, with a soul-strengthening pilgrimage, and an illustrated work by Onjana Yawnghwe. 

I would have liked to see more uniquely Canadian reasons to use our feet. I recall my own springtime visit to Kapuskasing for Canadian Children’s Book Centre Book Week. My late last great Auntie was still kicking in that northern town, aged 92, and I stayed with her. We set out for our own version of “san bu” with her explaining to me that for about three precious weeks in spring you’ll find everyone walking, and if they’re not walking, they’re on their front porch watching others walk. 

After those three weeks, she said, everyone goes indoors to hide from the mosquitoes that might carry you away. I appreciated the walk even more with the story, a special time with this ageing woman who had nurtured my own mother, and could still steam along at great pace ahead of any mosquito.

A few pieces only tenuously connect with the theme. Notably, most of the short pieces (2-3 pages) read as ideas more than fully-fleshed pieces (or even something with the delight of “flash”). But this means that the shortcomings are short, and the longer pieces, for the most part, are strong and worthy.

The best title ever, a real example of the nature of creativity that does flow from the act of walking, just might be: “A Brief Inventory of Things I Think About Stealing When I Walk Around My Neighbourhood.” This was the second offering in the guise of a list, and how a list should be—magical and inventive. Written by Diane Borsato. 

Another standout was Pauline Craig’s “I Remember Something Singing.” Craig, a lifelong consummate walker, was on a walk when she was struck by a vehicle. The close to this story of recovery is quietly stunning. 

This is why we pick up an anthology: it’s a flight of stories to be savoured, shared with a friend or two, and to find new voices and new eyes to explore.

Oh, maybe I’ll invest in headphones yet; this is a book for walking.

Alison Acheson is the author of almost a dozen books for all ages, including a memoir of caregiving, Dance Me to the End: Ten Months and Ten Days with ALS. She writes on Substack—The Unschool for Writers—and lives on the East Side of Vancouver. [Editor’s note: Alison has reviewed recent books by Veronique Darwin, Bill Freeman and Mike Levitt, Linda DeMeulemeester, François Gravel and Martine Latulippe, Nikki Bergstresser and Kim Spencer, Catherine Little, Evelyn Sue Wong, Lorna Shultz Nicholson, Pam Withers, Becky Citra, Paul Yee, Leslie Gentile, Caroline Lavoie, Janice Lynn Mather, Li Charmaine Anne, Linda DeMeulemeester, and Hanako Masutani for BCR; Blue Hours, her 2025 novel, was reviewed by Trish Bowering.]

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The British Columbia Review

Interim Editors: Trevor Marc Hughes (nonfiction), Brett Josef Grubisic (fiction and poetry)
Publisher: Richard Mackie

Formerly The Ormsby Review, The British Columbia Review is an online book review and journal service for BC writers and readers. The Advisory Board now consists of Jean Barman, Wade Davis, Robin Fisher, Barry Gough, Hugh Johnston, Kathy Mezei, Patricia Roy, and Graeme Wynn. Provincial Government Patron (since September 2018): Creative BC. Honorary Patron: Yosef Wosk. Scholarly Patron: SFU Graduate Liberal Studies. The British Columbia Review was founded in 2016 by Richard Mackie and Alan Twigg.

“Only connect.” – E.M. Forster