Winter Walk

A late start this morning after a restless night’s sleep. I set about my morning routine. I empty the dishwasher, brew a pot of coffee, and make myself a bowl of oatmeal with a drizzle of maple syrup. After breakfast, I layer up and set out on my daily walk.

A fresh blanket of snow covers the landscape and renders the air crisp, thin, and still. I make my way to a nearby field, where a network of crushed granite trails offers solitude and miles of open-space wandering. The snow is light and yet still deep enough to slow my pace. I don’t mind; the views are a frozen treat.

Two days ago, the landscape looked bare, scruffy, and dull. But now, blanketed in cottony whiteness, it’s luminous. I stop to photograph the snow-capped flower heads and brittle grasses that line the path.

As I walk, my thoughts linger on recent upsetting events. I try to pull my attention back into the moment—to the rhythm of my footsteps and the crunch of the snow, but I remain unshakably glum. Walking usually helps me clear my head, but it’s not doing the trick yet. I need to occupy my attention with something hopeful.

I pull out my phone and select a podcast: Open Country by BBC Radio 4. The episode I play is Gilbert White’s Selborne which turns out to be the perfect remedy for an uneasy mind:

By the time I finish my walk, the podcast episode is ending too, and I feel renewed, content, and clear-minded. I am reminded of how powerful nature is in grounding me in times of turbulence, and I am suddenly, surprisingly optimistic for the future.