I set out with intentions to just walk. To be present. To look. To meet the hills where they are, as they are – asking nothing in return other than having the privilege of one last walk.

It rained last night, leaving a few welcome puddles along the curb and small dusty pools of water on the hood of the car that will take us home tomorrow. The residual cloud cover seemed fitting to my mood.

I saw my first (dead) snake in the road – just a little, lifeless gray rope that made me jumpy until I realized it was dead. I passed the little leaning lending library and the mustard-yellow yarrow plant that I co-opted, with Mary, as my own. I passed and glanced over at #213, the house that we dreamed of buying, and with surprising ease renewed our decision to release and visualize it as a blessing for someone else.

I walked down the hill – yes, the faded green toy froggie was still there, and up the hill – still huffing and puffing more than what I would have liked. A deer stopped munching to stare at me. I took a photo of him. A puppy barked in the distance. A magpie flew and landed in the very top of the pine in our neighbor’s yard.

All of the ordinary showed up with nothing and everything special. It will be here next year, yes, but, will I? Does it matter? No, not really. I am here now.

-excerpt from The Hills of Durango to the Heart of the Soul, in process. Stay tuned!

Yes, that is a lost, faded froggie pencil-topper on the side of the road. At first I thought it may have been a crushed robin egg, but of course not. It is autumn. At first, I walked on past it, but curiosity made me retrace my steps, lean down, take a closer look, and if I hadn’t – I would have missed it.

Yes, there are even more milkweed seed bursting than yesterday. I couldn’t resist filming their angel-hair webs floating in the wind with, admittedly, internal commentary about the hum of a single distant car. Then, just to my left, I noticed two wasps waltzing atop the last of this season’s flower. With my video still running, I could easily record their dance. If I hadn’t been drawn first to the milkweed seed, I would have missed it.

Deciding to return on the low road of rocks and wildflowers that eventually leads to a small park, I saw two men and a dog sitting on my – excuse me – the bench. Twinges of resentment show up. So does an ounce or two of my (ridiculous) social anxiety. As I got closer I sensed kindness. Unexpectedly, this feeling of ease and kindness seemed to be emanating from them, surrounding the scene and me. I stopped and quietly asked, would you like a picture of you two and the doggie? They lit up and answered, why yes, that would be nice.

As one of the gentlemen handed me a phone, the puppy (whose name I heard to be Gerdie) posed perfectly upfront and between the two, and why – I just couldn’t help but smile. I am so glad I pushed past my initial crabby and shy feelings because, had I not, I would have missed it.

I didn’t want to walk today. I was lured into a trance of staring out across the meadows and mountains and writing, scrolling – okay, maybe more scrolling than writing, and sipping strong black tea. I don’t know what magic spell or body memory interrupted the malaise as I donned my shoes and cap and Kleenex and headed out. Sometimes a moment of initiative becomes a doorway to the most wonderous things. I’m glad I didn’t miss it.

We’ve been here long enough to watch things change, as they do – cattails burst giving up of themselves, seedlings for next spring; the littlest of fawns growing up a bit, their soft white spots fading into tawny shades of brown; and orange cones removed, revealing fresh asphalted streets made ready for winter.  

I am humbled by this chance to be in one place of beauty for more than a day. I am inspired and reminded to not get stuck or too in love with the ways things were when we arrived, and consider the present state – of the cattails, the fawns, the asphalt – as one shape of the process not the beginning or ending or whole of itself. Like me.

I’ve been here long enough to watch things change in me, and practice releasing what I cling to as unmovable suffering or ultimate sublime.

A little winded, I sat on the bench overlooking first – the ad hoc grassy pitch, then the sidewalk, the road, then the hill to the east and sky. Breathing in, breathing out, I pressed my back against the green grid backrest, shifting my line of sight from left to right, from right to left. And there it was – the slightest temperature change on my face as I turned toward and away from the sun. Shifting sunlight and shadows against my cheek carries sensations I had not noticed until just this moment on this bench.

It’s a delightful reminder – light carries warmth. Denied  if I’m busy, irrefutable if I am still and present.

This content is password-protected. To view it, please enter the password below.

Password: