As the monks walk for peace near Washington, D.C., their final destination in the 2300-mile walk, I find myself reflecting on how deeply their journey has affected me, not just intellectually, but emotionally, in a place that feels both tender and enduring. Watching them walk has stirred something I did not know I was missing.
Over the past months, I have seen videos of people lining the streets as the monks pass through towns and cities. I have watched strangers cry openly. I have seen hands extend with food, flowers, and bottles of water. I have heard the same words spoken again and again, thank you. Not shouted. Not demanded, offered quietly, often through tears.
What moves me most is how little these monks asked for, and how much they gave.
The walk has been led by Venerable Bhikkhu Paññākāra, a Buddhist monk whose calm presence has become inseparable from this journey. He is also Aloka’s primary guardian, the peace dog. Aloka was once a stray in India and joined the monks there, eventually walking with them across countries and continents. Their bond speaks volumes without words. It reflects care, responsibility, and quiet devotion.
They did not arrive with power, money, or influence. They did not come with slogans or demands. They came walking. Step after step. Through heat, cold, illness, injury, exhaustion, and uncertainty. They continued anyway. And in doing so, they reminded thousands of people of something we already knew but had perhaps forgotten. Love still matters. Kindness still matters. Peace is still possible.
Their message has always been simple. Peace begins within. During an interview, Venerable Bhikkhu Paññākāra shared a practice that has stayed with me. He suggested taking a piece of paper each morning and writing, “Today is going to be a peaceful day,” not as a wish, but as an intention.
I have tried to carry that thought with me on my own daily walks. Some mornings I do well: other mornings, my mind races ahead of me, full of worry and noise. I am not a monk. I am a work in progress. But I keep trying. I walk more slowly. I breathe. I remind myself why I am walking in the first place. I try to place my feet on the ground with intention, even when my thoughts resist stillness.
He said he hoped we would continue walking for peace, not just while they were on the road or while the story was new, but long after they reached their destination. I have been thinking about that a lot. I am trying to do that in my own simple way. My walks are short. My practice is imperfect. Some mornings, my mind is busy and restless. But I keep going. I keep stepping forward with the intention to be calmer, kinder, and more present than I was the day before. Maybe that is what continuing the walk looks like for most of us. Not dramatic. Not heroic. Just choosing, again and again, to place one peaceful step in front of another.
What the monks have shown us is a kind of modest heroism. They endured real hardship. They dealt with injuries, illness, and exhaustion. They rested when needed. They supported one another. They continued. And somehow, without force or fanfare, they raised our collective awareness.
They reminded us that peace does not require permission. It does not require wealth or authority. It begins with love, offered freely, and practiced daily.
As they reach Washington, D.C., I think about all the unseen ripples they have created. The people who stood silently as they passed. The people who cried. The people who turned inward and decided to be gentler with themselves and others. The people who began walking differently, even if only in their own neighborhoods.
I hope Aloka is healing well. I hope the monks feel the depth of gratitude being sent toward them from places they will never visit. And I hope we remember that their walk does not end simply because they arrive.
It continues in us.
One step at a time.
