The Familiar Walk

It's been difficult to the point I'd go unconscious. Placing a sharpened pencil to paper, scribbling lines, notes, and visions; crumpling each paper and beginning anew. But..

Ideas free fall and float into one's mind on a walk. The brisk evening's especially, when the moon hides faint behind wispy clouds, almost as if seeking a passage for itself to remain hidden. It cannot. To the open eyes, it's borrowed light hits their iris and refracts inspiration into them. So when they blink, a battery has been charged somewhere in the human conscience.

Today the walk came early, rain was predicted for later and the weather did not permit an evening excursion. He walked as he always did, calmly, perceptively, with each step an intention to add to the depth of his experience. As he strolled up the nestled valley where his house did reside, he wished he could find more comfort in the sheltered home life. For, whenever he invited relaxation into the picture, anxiousness would leap in front of it's reception and again call him outdoors.

Outdoors.. yes. Here where openness is the sky itself. Where conformity is the spontaneous branches that protrude from the trunk of a tree. Where life beckons to the free, and grants freedom to return the call..
It was not merely a hobby to walk for him. He created his worlds of exploration while on the walks. And even if the trajectory did not change, what was witnessed was never as similar as it seemed.

Each day brought a new horizon, a new sunset, a new sparkle, and a familiar wear to the automobiles and automatons that drove them. He did not hate the life of transport, of work, and of survival; but recognized it's limitations while working upon it's blind spots in himself. For example.. to live to work and work to live creates a type of square around the perception. In which work leads to more work and living also leads to work. When, he often wondered, would living lead to living; and not merely activities of fun, but actions of fierce and lasting inquiry into what composes this life.

To complete the answers to these questions would take time and diligence. Trust and sacrifice that things willed to workout. The momentum of his steps, over time, had become the momentum of his questions seeking out their own answer. These worlds of observation always connect, sink into each other, and prove useful he thought.

To keep an eye open, a mind wandering, and a soul exposed to influence was as primary as a care doctor to him.. he walked.

The streets were quiet and quaint, the roads somewhat narrow but well maintained. These were the footpaths familiar to the beginning of his walk, yet the real treasures lied in the trails that stretched into the woods.

As he approached the end of the streets, a beaten path came into view. Step by step it became clearer to his vision. It would lead him, past the pond that waded in reeds, through the hillside, and into the bright green forest. Anticipation sprung in his mind and his steps quickened. Soon he would not be beside himself, but beside belonging, in the wonders of the woods.

Arrival came quickly, perhaps because his brisk walk, or maybe because the odd time of day it took place in. The clouded sky was still producing enough light to walk the paths with ease, besides, at this point he could travel blindfolded and reach. He knew this stroll like the back of his hand.

The waters were still, tranquil, and his spirit the same. Leaves silently rustled in the cool breeze, which caressed his cheeks. Frogs and minnows danced seamlessly in the greater puddles. Looking out into the forest, the dance of creation revealed itself. The passionate fire of daily living was silenced in him, and he flawlessly reflected this movement of life. The trees, the earth, and the entirety of his view seemed to move in unison with his awareness;flooding his senses with the wonder of the season, the wonder that trailed effortlessly out into the mystery of it all.

In the depth of the forest he found himself seated, with an overflowing perception. There was no aim, goal, or idea left to reflect, simply an unaltered, un-judging witness to the scene before him.

This.. he felt.. this was paradise. Being whisked away by wonder, taken aback by beauty, and lost in the seas of dispassionate observation. His previous thoughts about adapting to home-life had faded and what remained seemed so much more important. The great outdoors, the great call of life, and the cool fade of ideology.

Here he indeed felt home.