Take a Hike

“May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing view.” 

Edward Abbey

Just go.

Anywhere is fine—a trail up a mountain or along a stream, a nearby city park even if you can still smell hot grease from food trucks, a sidewalk leading to a vacant lot into which you can cast a vision of gardens or wilderness. 

Strap your feet so as to feel the ground beneath them. By this, I mean, remind them of their truest vocation. Wrap them with adventure and curiosity. Give them permission to seek new paths, to stumble, and to find their way.

Travel lightly. Check your pockets and toss on the table indolence, torpor, despair. They are far too heavy for where you’re going. You can reclaim them when you return. Leave your hands free and open. The bark of a sycamore may whisper for touch. Your fingers may seek to comb the grasses. A stone may call for the warmth of your palm. 

Soften your gaze. What offers itself can sometimes only be seen from the corners of your eyes, like a fawn rising from sleep or a hawk’s plunge into shadow. Breathe deeply with the green around you. The scents will enter and waken a cry in your throat. Tune to the sighs of soil and sky, the invocation of ravens. Learn the slow languages of granite and limestone and listen to their stories.

When you turn homeward, offer thanks. Point your toes back the way you came and take hold of what’s now in your pockets.