If you’re reading this, there’s a decent chance you’ve hit refresh on your browser or platform of choice more times today than you’d like to admit. I have. My phone is warm.
So this isn’t an essay. It’s a suggestion to go take a walk. Ten minutes, maybe less, maybe more.
Put the phone in a pocket, ideally the one you can’t feel. Or even better, leave it on the counter. It’s warm here, and a little cloudy, so you won’t need much. Go out.
Don’t go anywhere in particular. Down the road, around the yard, to the end of the driveway and back. The route matters less than the leaving. I’m walking through the yard and down the slope to the stone ruins of a barn that’s long gone, now just a place I go to breathe sometimes.
For the first minute, walk the way you normally do. For me, that’s fast, a little braced, years of city sidewalks remembered by my body. Notice that. Notice your shoulders, which are probably closer to your ears than they were when you woke up this morning.
Now slow down by about a quarter. Not a stroll. Just the speed of someone who isn’t late and isn’t in a hurry.
Look at what November has brought. The leaves are about halfway down, so the woods have gone see-through in spots, and you can suddenly see stone walls and old foundations and the shape of the hill that was hidden all summer. Someone built those walls by hand. They have outlasted a great many news cycles.
Breathe in through your nose for a count of four. The air this time of year has an edge to it, cool and clean, with woodsmoke somewhere in it if you’re lucky. Let it go slowly, longer than you took it in. Do that three times. Let it be a little boring.
Listen for the farthest sound you can find. A truck on a different road. A crow. Wind working through the pines. Then the nearest one, which is probably your own boots on crunchy leaves.
Somewhere along here, your thoughts might go back to the screen, to the news. That’s fine. Let them. Then look at one thing: a single maple, a mailbox, a patch of lake showing through the trees. Look at it until it’s just a thing again, and not a headline.
This place has been through every kind of season, including the loud ones. The lake doesn’t check anything. It just sits there being cold and enormous, and it has done this for a very long time.
When you turn around, take the last minute slowest of all.
Then go back in. The news will still be there. It always is. But you’ll be carrying a little more outside air with you when you pick it up.
If this made you think of someone who loves this region, or a region of their own, send it their way.
Here’s to the long view, and to a good walk in the woods.
🌲Jenn
Keys to the Lakes
