turned toward morning

I turned down the wood chip path
turned toward morning 
set my face not like flint but like 
a fawn’s, nuzzled into clover 
and new grass and dew 
I walked into a wall of light 
light like a waterfall
drank the air the way I drank 
stream water after a hike
nothing ever so sweet and cool 

I have been praying it over myself,
my mantra, handed to me one morning 
in dark April when the buds 
were crushed together in hiding:
imagine softness 
I have not come close to attaining it
have not even run much after it
held it before me like the lamps 
always ahead and too distant to attempt
to reach, but so beautiful 
without which I could not walk 

I closed my eyes under the trees
under the sheer shadows 
I heard in my head the quote:
trust without fear
that’s what it is 
to be a woman 
I walked on and on 
saved not by speed or momentum 
or even movement at all
but the call of the light ahead 
softening my muscles
uncrushing these buds 
releasing these fears 

photo from one of my walks — obsessed with the shadows of the grass

I had a word last year that guided a lot of my decisions—whimsy. It was my year of whimsy, I told everyone around me, and we all leaned into it, and it was wonderful.

This year, I wanted a similar vision that I could keep coming back to, but it didn’t come right away. I know you can’t rush these things so I waited. Then, one morning this spring, I got a whisper: imagine softness.

It sprung from a realization that I spend a lot of time imagining intense things—not necessarily bad, just intense. Serious conversations where I unpack some thorny issue with wisdom and nuance (embarrassing to admit, but yes, I love imagining this); moments where I stand up boldly against injustice or lies; dramatic, movie-worthy scenes. Some of this normal and some it is just the way I process what I think about something. But I realized this mental rut of always focusing on intense, serious things was harming me. I can feel it in my body, a constant clenching, hunching, straining, to meet all that I think life is or will be throwing at me.

There’s a line in Chris Heuertz’s The Sacred Enneagram that has stuck with me. He talks about how body types (enneagram types 8, 9, and 1) experience the world. (If you don’t love or know about the enneagram, don’t worry about it. The idea is still meaningful.) I’m paraphrasing, but he says that they experience life as a physical “body slam,” a visceral force that hits their bodies, day after day.

The natural response to this is to tense up, to brace yourself for the continual onslaught. It sounds a little dramatic but I realized that I’m always holding myself ready, mentally and physically, for whatever is thrown at me. Even good things! Even beauty makes me gather myself up to appreciate it appropriately.

But what if I softened? What if I relaxed? What if I spent my mental effort on gratitude or remembering good moments or imagining scenarios where I am loved despite not having it all together? What if I received moments of beauty first, before trying to respond or do something about it?

It sounds so nice and so elusive to implement—hence the “I have not come close to attaining it / have not even run much after it” lines. But I think it’s worth holding before me as something to desire and ask for.

Oh, and the “trust without fear” quote: It’s from the marvelous Jojo Rabbit. I’ve dealt with more anxiety this year than I have before, and it’s been rough. Perhaps I’ll say more on that another time, but through it I’ve clung to this quote. I love it because it acknowledges that trusting without fear is hard, that our default (as humans and I think often especially as women) is to fear. But somehow it also conveys to me that it’s possible to not be consumed by that fear. It’s possible to choose love and trust instead.

Of course all this is only possible when first received as a gift. And that is what my morning walks have been to me, full as they are of natural beauty: gifts from God, the light, the air, the trees, the sky, the space and time and ability to walk for long stretches, his presence meeting me day after day. Only from that place can I move toward the trust and rest and growth that I hope to have.

I’m so far from figuring all this out, from experiencing it. But I will walk on, my face turned toward morning.

as always, to staying awake —

Aberdeen