After an unknown distance, I realized that I’m not trying to look up or out from the valley anymore. I haven’t thought about what I’ll do with my day, what I should’ve done with yesterday. Right now, I’m in it—in this place, in this walk, in this whole world contained in a wisp of light. And it’s darkness, visual silence, showing me the way.

I found something in the forest that I once lost.

It was hanging on spider silk and dripping with the sun.

It was tucked into the palm of a young leaf.

It was a secret shared between birds that somehow, I understood perfectly. Urgently.

There were times when I used to play small and shrink in order to make sure people in my life felt ok. Walking shifted that. On one windy, cold, icy morning, I became curious. Why do I do this? How is this behavior helping/supporting me?

I hear a lot of discussion about the quest for balance. I don’t think there is a place called balance. Life is in constant flux, so balance can only be temporary; therefore, seeking it as a desired end state is impossible. I think what I seek is not balance, but harmony.

One quiet and cold early November morning 12 years ago, I woke up slowly. I made spicy chai tea, wiped a skin of frost from the window, and realized that an essential component of who I was as a kid was no longer a part of who I was as an adult. I was happy, but I wasn’t whole.