I’ve been walking the same route for three months now. Down the hill, around the park, past the coffee shop that smells like heaven, and back up the hill. Two miles, give or take.
At first, I walked for exercise. Then for mental health. Now I walk because I’ve forgotten how not to.
Today I noticed the oak tree near the playground has started to bud. Tiny green promises of spring, so small I had to stop and really look to see them. How many times had I walked past this tree without seeing it change?
Walking, it turns out, is not about the destination. It’s about noticing things. The way shadows move across the sidewalk. The sound of laughter from someone’s backyard. The fact that the house with the blue door has a new garden gnome.
These are small things, unremarkable things. But they’re also everything.