It is a mile that I walk, usually, in the morning if it is clear and then again in the evening if I am not too pooped. Down the dirt road I call mine, between the fields planted, to the forgotten power pole that marks a half mile, and then back. Feet finding their way through ruts formed by heavy farm equipment after the last rain. Feet stepping alongside the footprints of mamma deer and her baby. My husband, on the weekend when he walks with me, points the tracks out. His experienced eyes find the footprints of coyote and other animals who have travelled the road to drink at our dugout.

In mid summer, the birds complain at me as I walk. Frogs chatter to each other at the dugout and grasshoppers dive out of the way of my steps. The crop, slow because of all the spring rain, is coming in. Small animals rustle, hidden along the way.

This is my morning journey. Walking for health that isn’t only physical. For the slowing down, the calming of spirit, prayer. For focusing on the important, for valuing the day to come and asking for help in the living of it.

It is a small journey, away from my home and then back again. The walking away and the return. The metaphor is not lost on me. My life speaks to its truth. That all of my journeys have brought me, in some way, back home.

It is a small journey, but treasured.

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