Skip to main content

The Need to Walk Amongst Trees

Image
By
Walking is more than movement — it is a return, a quiet homecoming. Before words, before thought, there was this: the body in motion, footsteps pressing into the earth, the world unfolding with each step. To walk in nature is to nourish something deep within us, a hunger we often do not name, but feel — the hunger to belong, to breathe, to be whole again.

Perhaps we seek solitude — not the heavy solitude of locked rooms and stagnant air, but one that is alive, that breathes with the trees and hums with the wind. In nature, we are alone yet never lonely. The sky stretches vast above us, untroubled by our worries. The rustling leaves whisper that we need not rush. Here, in this quiet, there is a rare gift: the freedom to simply be.

Or is it movement we long for? The body, so often contained — trapped in chairs, stiffened by routine, shaped to fit a world of straight lines — rediscovers its grace in the simple act of walking. The spine unfurls, the breath deepens, the arms swing loose, and suddenly, we remember: we were made for this. To move, to stretch, to inhabit our own rhythm, as natural as the wind shifting through branches.

And then there is the rhythm itself — the steady pulse of step after step, a heartbeat in harmony with the living world. This is where thoughts loosen, where the mind exhales, where new ideas arrive as lightly as birds settling on a branch. Here, clarity is not forced; it emerges, gently, as if it had been waiting for us all along.

But perhaps, above all, we walk to remember that we are held. Not by walls or hands, but by something vaster, something eternal. A tree’s silent endurance, a river’s ceaseless journey — these things whisper of time beyond our own, of a rhythm older than our worries, a belonging that does not waver. We are small, yes, but we are part of something immense and kind.

But belonging is not only found in movement — it is also in the stillness of night, in the quiet glow of a campfire. As day folds into night, as the path leads not home but to the quiet glow of a campfire, another kind of belonging emerges. We sit wrapped in blankets, hands cupped around steaming mugs, the scent of woodsmoke curling into the crisp night air. Above us, the sky stretches open, vast and velvet, spattered with stars.

This is where time slows. Where laughter comes softer, where voices lower in reverence, as if not to disturb the sacred hush of the cosmos. The fire flickers golden against familiar faces, and in this gentle glow, we are neither lost nor searching. The earth is firm beneath us, the night tender around us, the universe quietly watching over us.

And so we walk, and we rest. We move, and we pause. Not always knowing why, only that with each step, with each breath beneath the stars, we feel the quiet answer rising from the earth: You are here — and that is enough.

Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The Beauty of Smallness

By
We live in an age captivated by spectacle — by the towering achievement, the public triumph, the grand legacy. Yet there is a quiet and enduring wisdom in Mother Teresa’s words: “We cannot all do great things. But we can do small things with great love.” Not all of us are called to reshape the world in sweeping strokes, and perhaps that is precisely the point. For life, in its truest form, unfolds not in declarations but in gestures — the cup of tea brought without being asked, the phone call made simply to listen, the quiet presence kept beside someone in pain. These small acts, infused with genuine love, carry a weight far greater than their size suggests. They are not dramatic, and they rarely attract applause, yet they hold the fabric of our common life together. There is a kind of sacredness in doing the unremarkable with care — an elegance, even, that resists the noise of modern ambition. To love well in the small things is to dwell in the present with intention. It i...
Post a Comment
Read more

In the Grip Again

By
I’ve had dengue. Once more, it has graced me with its unwelcome presence — the second such visitation, and one I could well have done without. The fever was mercifully mild, hardly worth noting. But the itching — dear God, the itching — it was as though my entire being were begging to be scratched. Hands, feet, even the genitals clamoured in unison, each demanding attention with a kind of maddening urgency. Unlike the first bout, there was no dramatic onset to herald the illness. No high temperatures, no conspicuous pain. It was the pruritus alone — insistent and unrelenting — that finally betrayed the virus’s return. I worked through the week in stoic ignorance, chalking up the fatigue to the usual flurry of daily demands. I was, perhaps, a touch more irritable than usual; my thinking occasionally stumbled, like a foot catching the edge of a rug. Yet in the absence of fever and with joint pain too faint to raise suspicion, I all but overlooked the presence of the disease. ...
Post a Comment
Read more

To Stand With Others

By
There was always a door. Not wide, not narrow — simply there, as doors tend to be. People filed through it in decent clothes and decent thoughts, offering each other smiles approved by custom and time. I watched from a few paces off, not out of defiance, but because something in me paused. They said I could enter, if I wished. It would only cost a nod, a small silence, a looking away. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to fit in. Just enough to be invited to the right tables and clapped on the back by the right hands. But there were others — figures without names, without ease, the sort who carry their whole lives in their eyes. They were not welcome. Not at that table. Not beyond that door. And I, for reasons I could never quite translate into speech, could not leave them behind. So I stayed outside. Not with banners, not with noise — only with presence. They say one must choose: to be included by excluding, or excluded by including. I made my peace with the latter. It is quiet...
Post a Comment
Read more