It’s Walking Season for me now. When the weather turns and twists like a Mobius strip I seek out unfamiliar paths and trails like a dog digging for new scents. 

 

Walking is listening to God or myself or silence. Those three are a Holy Trinity to me: distinct and one in essence. 

 

Walking is time to think and disappear in my breath remerging to that Inner Wisdom-the Holy Spirit.

 

The Holy Spirit seems hard to hear in pleasant weather. Sidewalks buzz as cars speed past. Trails are packed with throngs of hikers, unruly dogs yanking at the ends of too-long leashes, athletes competing against invisible adversaries for new PRs. 

 

To hear the Holy Spirit requires long distances and solitude to discharge the mind from the chains of daily requirements and release the body sapped by the stiffness of the bed or desk or car. To hear the Holy Spirit requires solitude.

 

Here, my eyes lift to observe the cacophony of clouds. With that expansion of my chest and throat, I breathe deeply from the physical exertion and the rhythmic walking.

 

Many of us haven’t walked or worked or worked out free from music or podcasts or news in eons. As we listen, our mind, like a crammed drawer, continues to fill with the sounds, sayings, and thoughts from others. Our brain relentlessly chunks the input into categories. 

 

When do we give our consciousness a rest?

 

Walking Season helps. 

 

Winter, with its calamitous weather, encourages us to stay indoors. We want nothing more than to get cozy on the couch and binge a show or devour a book. But that tumultuous weather, as long as it isn’t dangerous, is a choice time to get outside.

 

The difference in climate unhinges your body. That jolt scatters the cobwebs from the brain like a wind before a storm. The charge refreshes. 

 

Now, the clothes you choose are armor; a thoughtful moment of fierce self-care. How will you prepare yourself for this difference? What will you carry in these moments? These moments, this choice, might be less easy than your current comfort zone.

 

Will you require pure wool layers to keep warm and dry? Water-proof shoes? A hat and scarf to insulate yourself from drafts. Layers for the moment when your internal furnace peaks? A windbreaker or water slicker to protect yourself? 

 

Will you require a snack? A warm beverage to hydrate yourself? Gloves? 

 

Now we choose a path.

 

We may have to drive to it. It may be as simple as stepping out of our back door. 

 

We choose a path. And we start.

 

In all likelihood, you’ll share the path with similar seekers. This path in inclement weather, in discomfort, the path of extra effort, is rarely crowded. 

 

Without the interference of the outside world, you’ll hear the sound of your weight on the Earth. 

 

You’ll hear the sound of the Earth bearing you. 

 

Feel the lengthening of your muscles. Feel the loosening of ligaments, and tendons. Notice as your stride takes shape. Sense the way the air travels through your nose and mouth. 

 

Are your eyes dry? Is your nose wet? Are your fingers numb with cold? 

 

Find a hill to exert yourself on. Has your pace quickened with the anticipation of reaching the top? Or have you slowed to ascend deliberately? Do you consider your next step?

 

How is your breath now? Can you soften it? Can you steady it? Can you smooth it like a stone?

 

Look around…is there snow on the ground? Is it light and powdery like hope? Is it dark and dirty like despair? Does a wind surge through trees? Do crows creak and caw among limbs? Do tattered leaves collect at trunks? Do the last grasses rebel? 

 

Have you shaken the overwhelm? Can you allow yourself to be?

 

Allow your mind to wander. Do you feel wisdom sparking? Can you hear the whisper of the Holy Spirit?

 

Where are you? How far have you come? 

 

Stop. Look back.

 

Wonder. Marvel. Appreciate.

 

Your head may be bowed at oncoming rains.

Persist.

 

You may be buffeted by winds.

Proceed.

 

Or you may find that you traverse an area of calm and stillness. In that stillness, you may find solace. In the silence, you may find spirit.

 

Be there, now.

Be here, now.

 

Do you feel?

 

Do it in the early morning, watching the fog melt.

Do it when a nearly full moon rises, large and leisurely as dough, in an indigo sky.

Do it at dusk, when most of Creation is huddled at home. 

 

Reach out, taking up space, fanning your arms above and around your head. Clasp your hands together, over your head, and stretch from one side to the other. Fold forward and touch the Earth. Wiggle your toes. Tilt your head to one side, make a half-moon stretching toward your chest, and lifting back up into your other shoulder. 

 

Put one hand on your heart and one hand on your belly. 

 

Here, now is your prayer, your mantra, your affirmation. 

 

I am here, now. 

 

I am present. 

 

I am. 

 

This is your present; your gift to yourself. This moment away from the needs of the obligations and duties and bonds returns to you the most precious commodity, time.  

 

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Thanks for reading!

 

You have slowed time. And Now, Here You Are.