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“Everyday courage
has few witnesses.
But yours is no
less noble because
no drum beats for
you and no crowds
shout your name.”
-Robert Louis Stevenson
I begin my daily walks in the same way. I amble through a dense dark wood at the edge of town. The kind dimmed by its angle, tilted too far north for the sun to reach. I stand at the mouth of the trail, looking into the thick wooded, battered tangles, and gather my breath as courage. Like a starling, puffing its feathered chest, I approach with forced stride and push forward. I have associated the shadowy underbelly of the forest with the unknown. The place where obscure, lurking, lonely things hide. Maybe disfigured, maybe mad, perhaps a surprised and surly bear, either way- hiding things I don't want to stumble on. I begin my walks in this way to face the part of me that has long been afraid of darkness, afraid of her creatures hidden within. Afraid of the vast unknown biting at her heels and her mind's towering stories of the threatening world. I know through my practice that these loaded places of avoidance are spaces to set up our mine—places to prod for gold. So, I faithfully begin each walk, here, in the estuary of my fear.
Once in the darkest spot, where a cool hollow wind winds, I consciously slow my step to an unhurried walk. I then standstill in the craggy wood and force myself to breathe. Riding the edge of the adrenaline swirling through my bloodstream, I focus my feet on sinking into the spongy forest floor. I look around to try and see where my perception is deceiving me. My intention for doing this is to confront the way my mind distorts things.
Can I challenge my fear and look for beauty on shaky ground?
If I am still enough, the fraught voices will begin to quiet. The smoke of my apprehension lifts as silence gathers around me. I see the towering trees, with lucidity, all huddled close together, like a tight-knit household, whispering to each other through needle of pine and creaking stalk.
