I don’t always listen to the woods around me when I hike.
Sure, I hear the humph of my shoes hitting the hard dirt,
and, of course, the slurpy gushing gurgle of the creek as I cross it on twin logs.
But I don’t always hear the river rushing a few hundred feet below
or the flap of the Stellar blue jay’s wings against the spruce needles
looking for just the right branch to watch me from
and not be seen.
I don’t always hear the gentle tickety click of the dry aspen leaves
bumping shoulders as they are lifted and turned by the light fall breeze
or the whine of hard-working gears pulling a semi up the long hill
bringing more to the mansions on high.
or the faint mid-tone call in the distance
that could be so many things.
On more hikes than I want to admit,
my body moves steadily forward along the trail
while my mind is elsewhere
pondering ideas
engrossed in a book
stuck on a stupid song
replaying the fight with my husband
to find how I am not wrong
only to discover that I have missed entire
sections of the trail,
sections of time and place that were known
only by my body,
my mind gone,
like the deer who flees from habit
even when there is no danger.
Mind is the issue, after all,
how it commands my attention
controls how my sentience and perception work together
or don’t.
Can the I that has a mind and has a body
unite them in a common purpose?
If I listen, can I hear what the forest is trying to tell me?
Do I even speak its language?
If I listen, will it talk to me in a way I can understand
the way the smell of cinnamon talks to my hunger
the way the sun talks to the sunflowers
the way rivers talk to fish
the way my heart talks to the sound of “Mom”
the way my body talks to my husband’s touch?
I will never know unless
I can persuade my mind to stay as it starts to run,
make it feel safe,
tuck it back in my body,
and listen.
