Walkin’ and workin’

I walk a lot. And while I walk, I often work.

Actually, I’m writing. Not that you would know it were you to observe me in action. Mostly, I’d appear to be padding along, looking about, studying the ground, turning at a sound.

That’s how I found the diminutive glass bottle half buried in the leaf litter. How did it come to rest by the lonely forest stream? Did it hold medicines or creams or some precious delicacy too dear to fill a larger bottle? Who touched it last before letting it fall onto these mosses and ferns?

Before long, my imagination is engaged. While my dog pal, Bu, reads our surroundings with his nose, I am processing the scene with all senses activated.

At least, on a good day, that’s what I’m doing. Such a stroll supplies my writing mind with fodder for reflection. There are riddles to be puzzled over, images to ponder, a fresh dose of wonder at a dirt road spangled with butterflies warming their wings in sun puddles. The details of such days weave their way into a poem, a column, a letter home.

Bu doesn’t summon such justifications for our daily jaunts. He’s just “living in the moment,” present and perceptive. And somehow, he senses when I’m not tuned in. At such times, I’m distracted and careless, negligently rushing along with a diminished sense of awareness. These are the days when Bu hangs behind, stopping to sniff at every bush, pausing to investigate a rock that appears to me no different than all the others.

I used to find this mildly annoying and would practice various tactics to move him along—whistling, calling, and tugging at his leash to bring the laggard into line. But over time, I began to realize that Bu’s draggy days were opportunities for me to stop and smell the proverbial roses, or, in this case, the spicy sweet fern, resinous white pine and other fragrances of our region’s natural riches.

I learned also to make such stops a sensory wake-up call. Stand still. Look slowly about, first closely, then more deeply into the forest. Tune in to sounds emanating from all six directions, seeking subtler voices beyond the obvious ones. Layer onto this any air currents, dampness, heat falling across skin. Breathe deeply, noting what odors are wafting around.

By the time I’m done, Bu usually is, too, and we resume our ramble. In the meantime, I’ve had a chance to reconnect with the world around us, sometimes discovering intriguing things like the milky clump of pearl-sized eggs in a dark wetland pond, the perfectly silent, staring fawn, the veery trilling its liquid notes or a rare lady’s slipper opening its magenta throat.

Each discovered thing sparks a tiny flame that helps to ready my pen for a blank page. What wonder-ful work is walking.