Last night I joined a zoom call with 10,000 other people around the world to listen in on a conversation with Krista Tippett, Lucas Johnson and Pádraig Ó Tuama of On Being. It was quite moving and inspiring. “A Midwinter Gathering” was convened on the Winter Solstice to allow those attending to consider the impact this past year has had on all of us. It created a holding space for the fullness of the year and to make room for quiet reflection.
One of the things that these three companions spoke of was “accompaniment”, a concept that I delighted in…being present to one another, being non-judgmental, keeping one another company on the journey of life.
In that spirit, I invite you to join me on one of my walking meditations. Perhaps I can offer you some accompaniment on my walk. Meditation is a practice, and I am still learning, but, come along, if you like…
As the afternoon begins to fade, I bundle up (because this is December in Vermont). I step outside and walk out to see our view. I plant my feet in the snow and raise my arms over my head and inhale the cold air, oh so very deeply. I exhale slowly. I do this a few times, reaching higher to the sky each time. Then I begin to walk, slowly, listening to my boots crunch in the snow. I walk for a bit to the edge of the balsam forest and as I step into the deep woods I smell the scent of evergreens. I stop and listen to the sigh of the branches as the breeze comes through. Old snow falls from branches in a soft scattering. Some of the beech trees that grow along the edge of the path still have a few leaves on them, and they rattle in the breeze. The birds are flitting above me and scolding me for my trespassing.
I walk a bit more and begin to notice all the tracks in the snow. Deer have wandered through, snuffling among the low hanging balsam branches, looking for pockets of tasty bits under the snow. Rabbit footprints weave between the deer tracks. A coyote wandered through at some point. And still the birds flit overhead. Now a raven perches atop one of the tallest balsams, alerting all the wood dwellers of my intrusion. I walk along, noticing that I am warming up, that my heart is working harder, even though I am walking at a moderate pace.
As I come out into the meadow, the view opens up and for the millionth time, I am amazed that this is where I live. The winter greens, blues, grays and browns spread out in front of me and it begins to snow again. It snows nearly every afternoon I walk, usually light flurries. I walk past the hoop house, all closed up for the winter, and the snow fence that protects the blueberry bushes. As the afternoon sun wanes along the tops of the mountains, it creates deeper shadows along my path.
I stop again and listen. A truck grinds through its gears down in the valley. The wind has picked up, and a neighboring rooster crows (he is often confused about the time of day).
My last bit of walking brings me to the edge of the tent platform, where I hoist myself up onto the wooden deck and spend a few minutes in a deeper mediation. As I sit still and as the wind picks up, I realize it’s time to get moving again.
I get to the bird feeders near the house and stand as still as I can. Often the chickadees fly right past me, and I can hear the rush of their tiny wings, and feel the air stir as they pass. I am fascinated by those who can feed birds from their hands. That is on my “to do” list for 2021.
I stomp my boots off on the porch and as I step into the house my glasses fog up. I feel so much better than when I headed out just a bit ago.
And I hope that if you have read this far, maybe you too feel a tiny bit better.
Namaste friends.