Movement catches my eye. Then another. Small birds move through the branches with quick purpose. Chickadees and sparrows, winter residents who know this hour well. I have birdseed in my pocket and offer it without expectation. One bird lands, then another.

Some days, I step outside filled with energy and curiosity. Other days, I drag my feet. But every walk teaches something. The tired days teach resilience. The restless days teach patience. When you walk through it all, you begin to understand that each season, internal and external, has something to offer.

When my mother died, the world tilted. Nothing looked the same. Not the sky. Not the light. Not the sound of morning. My body didn’t know what to do with the ache, so I did the only thing it remembered how to do. I walked.

I look to the natural world for instruction, for the kind of quiet, steady guidance that doesn’t shout but hums in a language older than we are. I have taken classes in biomimicry, learning how the shape of a kingfisher’s beak can inspire a faster train, how the structure of a lotus leaf can teach us to keep buildings clean without chemicals. Nature offers solutions if we are willing to pay attention.

Some days, I walk just to move the bones around. Other days, I walk because something in me is tangled, and the only way to loosen the knot is to take it outside. I don’t need a reason most mornings. I lace up, step out, and let the rhythm do its thing. Walking, it turns out, is a kind of gentle magic. Not flashy, not loud, just step after step after step, and before you know it, you’re feeling better.