This is the third time this week that I’ve sat down to write, and then decided.
I’d just rather walk.
Every spiritual guide and clairvoyant I’ve ever encountered has told me this: you live too much in your head. I believe this blog to be evidence of that fact; the ruckus of clambering thoughts channeling through their own medium.
But on my walk, I am left only to listen.
The sound of the creek I know will equally approach me, as I it, at the bend in the road. The rusty-rich waft of decomposing layers of last fall’s leaves, reliably escape through a pocket of collapsing snow, rising to meet me in a vivid reminder of the season past and to come again. There is a story, in the earthy brown eyes of the aspens, that reveals itself only if my imagination is set free to wander. Newly naked bird nests, dolloped each with a foot of fresh powder, shock me with the secrets held from me by the trees of which I walked unaware, each day, under. The missing footprints marking where the heard of elk clearly took flight over the fence. Their musk sending my black lab into a frenzy, from which she returns from circles, with a determined snort of the snow off her black nose. And the only sound that echos, is that of my resulting laughter.
Having spent so many years, neck to neck, and thus in stillness with the speed of the seasons, it is dizzying to have stopped allowing them, now, to wash over me. On my last flight from India, I rebelliously refused to shut my window at the attendant’s kind request. Instead I fogged up the tiny window with the breath of my awe at the continents of land masses, passing quietly beneath me. But I’ve always looked out the window. Why is it different now? An insightful friend chuckled knowingly, “because now you have a home.”
And isn’t that a concept!? That I travelled lightly not for leaving my heavier books and boots, but for having left my sense of home behind! Or perhaps that I rather carried it with me. Some internal locus, which left the compass spinning, not out of control, but rather like a clock. Simply making its way around. Pointing to nothing in particular, evidencing, over time, nothing but a center.
I have a home? I suppose I have a place that comes to me, and not I to it. I have a place in which I’d rather not talk, but listen. I have a finish line with time, in which I’ve quit, and let the colors, visions and scent of seasons blissfully overwhelm me. The needle on my compass now leaves hesitantly, returns eagerly. Hum. Yes. I have a home.
And I have a quiet walk. With a path in whose subtle changes I take immense delight in discovering. Maybe I’ve run out of some words. Maybe I’ve always needed shorter sentences. Maybe my season of listening is simply upon me. There’s a peace in this. And it is welcomed.