I am a creature of habit when it comes to my sitting meditation practice. Same cushion. Same corner of the room. Same spot on the rug. But there’s something about warm weather that makes my indoor meditation feel like a too-small shirt that needs to be tugged off. I can’t get outside fast enough.
In walking meditation, instead of focusing on my breath to anchor to the present moment, I feel my feet on the ground. Each step connects me to being exactly where I am. Or maybe not. My mind still wanders. When I notice it does, I bring my attention back to walking.
My first steps are kind of tentative. The grass feels prickly and wet. I’m not sure I like the sensation. And then I notice my thoughts and take a deep breath. I come back to feeling my feet on the ground.
The path is bumpy in spots and trips me up. I learn to adjust my gait and glide into the unevenness to find my balance. I figure out that I have to strengthen my pace in order to keep my momentum going when the ground rises slightly uphill.
As I walk, my senses light up. Birds chirp. Water laps against a dock. Trees stretch to the sky. A bug buzzes by. The breeze is soft and warm against my skin. The smell of spring turning into summer is intoxicating.
My eyes turn closer to my feet. Golden toadstools. Spittlebug froth resting on cat mint. An ant hill that I take care to step over.
I reach the midway point and pause, taking in the view. My breathing is relaxed and even. I sense the weight of my body as I stand solidly in the grass. At the same time, I feel light. The preoccupations and chattering thoughts that I began my walk with have been shed along the way. Nature has cut through the noise and guided me to the centered, quiet part of myself.
As I turn to retrace my steps to where I began, I take with me the presence, peacefulness and groundedness that my walking meditation has unearthed. The calm that is always there when I take the time to find it.
"The miracle is not to walk on water. The miracle is to walk on the green earth, dwelling deeply in the present moment and feeling truly alive." Thich Nhat Hahn