A couple of months ago, I was at the airport waiting to board my flight. While chatting with a woman at the gate, I discovered we shared a destination—a national park. I asked, “Do you like to go hiking?” She replied with a smile spreading across her face, “I go on spirited walks.” I nodded with both deep understanding and curiosity. And her response has lingered with me since.
Now, would you come along with me on this spirited walk in November?
…………
The crow’s caw calls me onto the well-worn path, my heels wearing it even more. My middle-aged bones, like autumn, creakier than the year before. I take my spirit for a walk, a storied spirit whose chapters continue to unfold with the seasons.
The plip-plop of falling leaves carried by the morning breeze accompany the squirrel’s chatter (likely about me, unsure of my intentions). Dappled light settles onto my cheeks as the drone of machinery settles in the distance. The song of breeze, leaf, and squirrel rise into the thin mountain air.
My shadow follows alongside me—my companion of contrast, an expression of light’s play. The sun spins golden threads on the yellowing tree tops.
On the left, the sign says, “Wrong way, blind curve ahead” as the muffled sound of helicopter propellers sweep up the landscape. Yet, I am heartened by a tiny maple leaf that glimmers at me. Its quilt-like pattern of alternating rust and gold are understated but not unnoticed. Edges curled upward. Veins exposed. Tattered. Worn but not weary. The trees whisper their goodbyes to each leaf, branches baring as autumn ripens.
The leaf ushers me off-trail to a resting place. Often, a spirited walk invites me into stillness. This walk is slow and meandering. An intentional inhale as the trees exhale—an ancient rhythm of reciprocity. Of breath. Of life.
Refreshed, I saunter up, up, up, noticing the 1-2-1-2 cadence of my feet. My breath crescendos with each step. The forward motion senses the sacred rising up. Each pace searching for spirit of place, already known by the crow. The squirrel. The oak. The black bear.
The late morning light welcomes me around the bend, and the path levels out. The curve is, in fact, not blind. It is illuminated with both light and song.
Caw, caw.
Chick a dee dee dee.
It is the song of the American Crow. And the Carolina Chickadee. Along with the Red-bellied Woodpecker, the Golden-crowned Kinglet, and the Red-breasted Nuthatch. As birds carol together on the mountain top, spirit rises.
I stop for awhile to listen. To feel. To be. Eventually, the internal pressure of time urges me to go. As I make the descent back, the glimmering maple leaf, the squirrel chatter, the sun’s golden threads, and avian carols are woven into me—into spirit.
an invitation
If you’re able, consider taking not just a walk but a spirited walk. It can be (and usually is for me) right in your neighborhood. This type of walk needs no companions, earbuds, or fitness trackers. It is simply you and the earth that holds you. It is about noticing, listening, and being curious. It seems so simple, but I believe we often forget the joy and peace of simple things. So, I encourage you to take a spirited walk and see where your path takes you on this November day.
