WALK Home

In many ways, today is unremarkable. The sun arrived through the window at the same time it did yesterday, in prismatic beams of silver and gold. The weather is cloudy with a twenty percent chance of rain late in the afternoon. There is a mist—but not quite a fog—sitting still in the air. It collects on the bridge of my nose as I walk, rolling down the sides and onto my cheeks like tears, each drop taking the same path as the last.

The squirrel—not to be confused with a squirrel—continues collecting small twigs and leaves for his drey, standing on his hind legs near the edge of the trail and stretching his body long to greet me. He’s familiar with and unbothered by my footsteps, which makes me smile. The air smells like big trees. The biggest ones. California conifers, a new kind of mountain for me.

This morning walk, in many ways, feels like every morning walk: down the road, left, left, up the hill, back home, my body warming slowly over several miles, the sun settling northeast in the sky, roughly an hour after her initial climb. There’s the delicious sense of being welcome. My muscles are relaxed. Either I’ve learned the landscape better than I realized, or the earth has chosen to be gentle with me. She often chooses gentleness. I walk with ease, peace, and a sense not of wisdom necessarily, but tenure.

In my life, I’ve been thrilled by the disorientation of unfamiliar places and paths, by strange kinds of weather or clever birds throwing their voices. But today, I am exhilarated in knowing, consolation, and old friends, whether they come to me as faintly salted breezes from the bay or as dear neighbors, many of whom walk here daily as I do.

For the past several years, much of life has been newness—new friends. A new ocean. A fresh injury. The end of a marriage. A beginning. Small white hairs on my son’s scratchy beard, the same white as mine. He was only two pounds at birth. And I swear, that was only yesterday. I’ve felt grief and confusion and tenderness at the passage of time, torn between how am I still learning? And thank goodness I’m still learning. I’ve felt excitement at the right challenges coming to me on the right days and loneliness in stepping towards them alone.

But in this walk, every day, I’ve found the feeling of home. Waking in the still-dark morning and choosing a step forward is how I belong in and to this world. Yes, I have been faithful to this practice, but it has been faithful to me. I walk out the door and into nature and am always invited, safe, and held.

Wherever I am, I am walking home.

But as our generous home struggles to protect and nourish us the way it has since before the word “earth” was born, we must also become her guardians. Like a parent, she will give everything if we allow it, she will break for us.

The key to loving her well is knowing her. So, walk. Study her, listen to her stories, delight in her, protect her, say, “thank you.” Keep walking. Know that in doing so, you may come to learn and love yourself along the way.

In this journey, I have shed many things that defined me. It has been scary. And hard. And sad. And wobbly. But I had my walking practice. Or it had me. Held me. Loved me. Honored the space I needed. I walked and walked and walked into the arms of the earth and into me. This me.

Real me.

One step at a time.

Home.

Walk on, sister.

Remember, wherever you are, you are walking home.

I’m not sure where home is. I don’t think it has an address. Perhaps it is simply where our hearts are at rest.

Prompts

• What would it feel like if you felt at home wherever your feet were?

• Does “home” require four walls and a roof?