I love to take walks, and while walking always seem to wish I took the time to get out more often, even if it is raining a bit, or cold and dreary. There is something medicinal about walking in the quiet, or walking with the soundtrack of some of your favorite music. It makes me thankful, somehow allows me to see life from an arial perspective, from a "seeing the whole parade at at once" perspective. I almost always feel when I return from a walk a little sad that it is done, but a little better about life in general. It is a physical action during which my generally restlessheart and mind come to a place of quiet, and that is always good.
Today I walked, then I read this poem, then I walked some more.
I, 1981; from A Timbered Choir, by Wendell Berry
Here where the world is being made,
No human hand requiored,
A man may come, somewhat afraid
Always, and somewhat tired,
For he comes ignorant and alone
From work and worry of
A human place, in soul and bone
The ache of human love.
He may come and be still, not go
Toward any chosen aim
Or stay for what he thinks is so.
Setting aside his claim
On all things fallen in his plight,
his mind may move with leaves,
Wind-shaken, in and out of light,
And live as light lives,
And live as Creation sings
In covert, two clear notes,
And waits; then two clear answerings
Come from more distant throats--
May live a while with light, shaking
In high leaves, or delayed
In halts of song, submit to making,
The shape of what is made.