Starting last August, I began walking. So many things in flux, decisions to be made about the course of my future. I walked through low-lying fogs of thoughts, flew over fields, playing out scenarios. Every week, at least once, a long walk in the woods. If my body and the weather conspired against me, treadmill (not as satisfying but still helpful) or in the case of long covid flare-up, beautiful films and poetry in bed. Nothing compares to co-regulating with trees, breathing with natural bodies of water, thinking in the wind. I began to develop a relationship with the wild part of myself, they who exist as a creature of bark, ice and moss, both shelter and shelter-seeker. Shelter builder. Constructing safe spaces to dream out of branches and breath. I knew I was making something. Something new. Maybe a place, maybe an era, music, poetry; doesn’t matter. Crossing a stream on a fallen tree. Exploring what is clearly not a surrounding environment but part of my very self, the part of me that nibbles saplings and spreads a dark blanket over the mountains, the part of me that glitters under the water.
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