The lesson of a single tree is no less valuable than the teaching of a forest.
Yesterday I went on the most lovely walk, and I wish I had more photos to show for it—I forgot my camera at home. The scary part is, before that walk there was a moment that I almost didn’t walk, I thought “eh, it’s far, I should just stay here.”
Thank goodness for the piping up of the little voice inside that longed to explore; I launched onto what was such a beautiful little quest.
At first the walk was almost a hassle, what had to be done in moving to a destination.
But I remembered a beautiful essay by Chogyam Trungpa, I recalled that it is in this hurried way of walking, eating—doing anything as simply a means to an end, that we miss the beauty of what is right there in front of us.
If we are willing to let go of being somewhere else, of our final goal, we can turn into the sacredness of each step of the task.
So I slowed my pace (I seem to be walking so fast all the time!), took a deep breath and began to walk—guided by the direction I was heading, but focused on the path as it came before me.
The road I had driven by many times was illuminated with nooks and little treasures that I had never even seen.
Bits of paradise poked through the walls of concrete, moss crawled and curled up brick walls—forming a perfect, plush backdrop. There were carousel horses in front yards, trees still raining their last vibrant leaves. The softest plants in all the world passed through my fingertips.