I stop to see a weepin’ willow

I spent a large portion of my childhood walking.

My Dad, brother and I would frequently head out after we ate dinner, our bellies still full of food. (My guess is that Mom enjoyed the peace and quiet of a house minus two gabberwocky kids.)

The fact that our stomachs were still sloshing around made it impossible to run or treat the trek as exercise. It was a stroll - something to aid digestion, I suppose, but mostly it was something that killed an hour or so. I don’t remember much about what we talked about, only that it was sacred time. Peaceful. Relaxing. Like a cup of tea before we rolled into bed.

Around 8 last night I was antsy and jonesin’ for some chocolate. I wasn’t in the mood to drive anywhere, and decided it was too beautiful not to walk somewhere nearby. Wanting to stretch out the trip, I decided not to go to the gas station directly. I’d stroll for a bit by myself, then nab a Hershey bar on the way home.

The night air was breezy and cool. Pulling down on my sleeves, I was happy that I threw on my pullover and long cotton yoga pants. I stepped slowly through my silent parking lot, relishing the calm. The gray sky rolled overhead, patchy and threatening to rain, but mostly heralding the season's impending return to Fall.

When I turned off 95th Street’s busyness and headed back in to the neighborhood, I re-realized how holy the practice of “just walking” can be.

Some people say they get clarity when they’re running. Because that activity is rather painful for my teeny, wussy lungs, I have to focus on not dying, thus defeating the purpose of any introspection.

But walking gives me clarity. It’s peaceful and settling to my soul.

Most of the time I’d have had music humming, but as of late excess noise has been irritating me. I decided to let my iPod remain in my jacket pocket, staying present in the silence. In the stillness I heard the most beautiful sounds of things I’d forgotten.

Cars softly whooshing by as they headed back to sleepy homes.
Cicadas croaking in surround sound.
The electric buzz of streetlights overhead.
Laughter wafting out through slightly cracked ground-floor windows.

The quiet focus was well with my soul…and my thoughts. They slowed down and became clear-cut. I could wrap my arms around the meatiness of my dreams and slice my hand through the thin vapors of my anxieties.

In the stillness, God and I eventually talked through a few things. It was a more natural form of prayer - one that sort of naturally bubbles up when your state is meditative.

It’s amazing what He says when you’re silent enough to listen.