Most days, before much of it begins, I walk by the creek.
I walk alone.
To walk by the creek, alone is best for me.
I could arrange to meet another – but that would add the burden of a meeting time and a meeting place.
Expectation.
Planning.
And lost would be the live sense of improvisation.
For each decision would need to be shared, perhaps debated, probably discussed.
I like to walk alone.
I walk alone and sometimes I will stop by the big old river red gum.
Maybe I will pat its trunk.
Usually I will say hello.
At least three times I have given it a hug.
When I am alone nothing matters.
Nothing about other people matters.
I’m just me, going along, not bothering with any of that.
Not bothering with any of that.
Strange to say, but a few times I have felt at one with the trees.
At one with the wind, the sun, rain.
As if I was a part of it all.
Grounded in the same earth, seeing with the same eyes.
A full and necessary part of the scene.
Only a few times in all my years.
But still.
It was really something.
If you have ever walked by the creek with me, I must love you very much.
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Inspired by and apologies to Mary Oliver
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Thanks for reading, thanks for visiting.
This is Sproutings #152.
All issues are available here. I hope this finds you well in body and mind, or at least in one of them.
You might enjoy these diary entries that I came across during the week.
Written by a then-30-year-old Leo Tolstoy in 1858:
Sept. 19: Decided that one must love and work, and that’s it.
Sept. 20: Tired. Didn’t love and didn’t work.
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