On of the things that I an always count on to lift me out of a funk is a meandering walk in the woods. It’s fortunate that I now live alongside a 750-acre wooded park with trails of varying difficulty. I’ve been taking the time to walk as many of them as I can justify the time for. Most times, the justification for time spent is the search for food. Namely, mushrooms. This isn’t to say that I don’t also benefit from the quiet time alone. It’s been helpful during all of this upheaval and loss.
I feel really at home in the woods. The smell of damp leaves and rich soil and the way the light streams through the canopy of treetops for me is akin to a warm blanket, a fire and a purring cat. It does the same thing to me. It removes all wanting and longing. I am here now. I am happy for it. There is no other place I want to be.
There’s a funny thing about these foraging walks. I only ever really leave with a prize once I’ve resolved that I am not going to have any luck this time around and that I should just enjoy the path. I stuff my roll-up tote bag into my pocket along with my utility knife and with acceptance, I continue down the trail, occasionally deviating for something that catches my eye. Without fail, just as I begin the journey back home, I walk right into what I’ve been hoping to find.
Isn’t that just how life is? There’s a lesson in here, isn’t there?
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