Took a long walk on the cross-country trails in the early afternoon. My head felt cloudy – unlike the skies which were clear and blue and beautiful. I am fascinated that even on a sunny day, I still have dark shadows that chase my sense of happiness and security. Surely, they are an illusion – but one that shackles the ankles and begs me to pay attention, to source the cause, to unravel the mysteries that complicate my space.
The snow was still. Not one person walked the path or appeared on distant horizons. The sounds of a light wind ruffled through the quiescent birch trees : surely, winter at its best, although this one in Idaho, one of the mildest that anyone can remember.
It was the act of stopping the walk, of recognizing the tempting bench half hidden in snow and empty tree grove that drew me to the quiet place. I pulled off hat and gloves and sat, a witness to what was before me. A tall set of mountains. A wide valley – in the summer, ripe with grain – now covered in snow as if a modified sea of white.
Whatever I had held – breath, tightness, fears – slowly began to dissipate as the vastness of all life – the interconnectedness – once again filled the corners of my mind.
I wasn’t really alone. I was surrounded by life, by love, by the energy that infuses the seed, the leaf, and my own hair follicles. Whatever had troubled me slipped into the snow drifts, and left me knowing that I was okay. Still here. Still breathing. Still able to make conscious decisions and put my feet on yet another step of their constantly chosen path.
Surfing Into Sixty 