I get tingles when I see the first scarlet leaves in the trees. It has been challenging making room for outdoor walks (work has been a whirlwind), however, I plan to get some good steps in before October ends and the trees become bald.
I began walking and writing together some time ago. Last summer, I made it a requirement to walk often. It is meant to bring me out of the loop of algorithms and technology and reset my motivation and attention span.
The results have been golden.
The drive to keep writing, no matter how stuck I am, has remained, and the woods are forgiving friends when one needs a non-judgmental space to be a writing madwoman.
I even have a favorite spot where I can look out onto the lake. I have to go off the path of one of my favorite trails, but it isn’t too far and it is secluded enough for me to hear only the jumping fish, drifting turtles, cardinals, and mourning doves.
I can sit (ignore the ants on my butt) and welcome the privilege that is writing by hand. It took some getting used to, but eventually I began to notice that I was choosing words carefully, thinking through my rhythms in a way that typing cannot. Typing only ripples past these rhythms.
It helps to get out of the house and touch the grass, oaks, and lake water. The classical legends such as Charles Dickens and Virginia Woolf were walkers. Haruki Murakami is also a walker. I am itching to get out there again to see what magic nature will bring.
