You would think only my ears went for a walk,
because all I could focus on this morning was
the constant putter and drone and rumble and whine
of the steady stream of cars on the highway below.
My ears were bothered. Mightily so. Bothered
enough they drowned out the woodsy scent
of spruce and the dry earth perfume of late summer
so I could focus on a backfiring engine.
Bothered enough I had to force myself to notice
how soft the trail was underfoot, how easy it felt
to stroll on the flat surface. Had to force myself
to see how some leaves in the understory were
already turning red, how beautiful they were,
how good the warm sun felt on the bare skin
of my arms, how a crisp breeze made
my arms rise as if in praise to receive a brief
and welcome chill. Surrounded by so much
beauty, it’s a wonder I could be fussy at all,
but wow, was I fussy as those cars roared by
and I dreamed of a different, better trail where
I wanted to be right then, some other trail where
I heard only birds or wind or blessed nothing.
Hours later, sitting on the couch, it’s obvious
what I heard loudest was not traffic, but my own
fussy thoughts as I longed the world to be different
than it was. By some grace, a sweet self-compassion
floods me, quiets me, stills and softens me,
helps me befriend myself just as I am, a human
who is sometimes fussy, sometimes compassionate.
For a grounded moment, I am so content I think
a whole highway could thunder right through me,
and I might just be okay.