During the early days of Covid, when we were stuck at home and spring was slowly poking through, we’d go on a walk every afternoon.

We started when the ground was covered in snow, but as the days went on, the ice gave way to the first green ferns that curled towards the precious sun.

A stream that was frozen started to flow and tiny pale violets appeared through the dead leaves.

I’d never been in such close contact with the unfolding of the world. I’d never been as close to home.

I’ve continued this practice, although not as often and for not as long. I walk slowly, feeling the rocks beneath my shoes, noticing the changes in the forest. I smell the seasons – the warm pine of summer, the delicious death of fall.

We all come from the land we walk over. Our bodies are made from soil and water, goodness from rot and mould.

The stones we step on are reminders we are merely visitors here, soon to return to the ground. Another’s feet will walk on that granite.

There’s something about knowing our place in the pattern of things; our brief appearance in a dance that’s gone on for millions of years.

Perhaps that’s enough.