Sunday Mornings Were Made for Walking

Heather and I were both smitten by the early morning colors of the sky, how the grey and fluffy clouds moved fast across the mountains, looking like the only semblance of snow we might see here in winter. We took off in our rain coats around 9a.m. after tea and coffee and slices of pie for breakfast. We soon paused; awe-struck by the glowing Ventanas, the granite and rocky layer further east completely alight, like heaven opened only to that mountain. We eventually continued walking, along the hills above the ocean, on narrow paths across the pastures, our legs being blown by the wind as they were lifted to find the next step. We pulled our hoods up and leaned into the wind with our arms outstretched. We faced the wind, coming from over the sea, leaning all the way onto tip-toes, nowhere near falling. We turned and put our backs to the wind, shifting the weight to our heels, slanted but upright, held by the wind’s breath.

We walked back along the dirt road, out of the wind for a stint, hidden behind the hills. We emerged up and over, briefly blown, and then I followed Heather down the ciffside to a cluster of rocks and spindly sycamore trees. We saw our first banana slug of the season. We looked at the hillsides, mostly naked as we enter winter. We both spoke of enjoying getting to see the bones of a place once its’ abundant leaves and colors depart for the season. This place was sacred. I could feel it even as we walked down toward it. It was as if I was nine or eleven and this was the place I could go to get away from the rain and noise, lay underneath curling tree branches, sit on my heels and look down the ravine to the ocean, close my eyes and rest.

As we stood to continue, a condor flew above us, headed South and out over the sea, barely needing to flap its’ massive wings to keep momentum as it glided on the thick wind. We watched and walked faster to keep it in view. Two more appear a bit later, and we are speechless again for the extent of their flight. I want to lie on their backs and let them take me wherever they’re going.

Our feet walk us slowly to the top of the meadow, which we drop into, almost floating. The grass is green from an inch of rain and the debri shelters that the fourth grade class we hosted in October are still standing, but have dried and lost most of their leaves.

It is nearing the end of our walking, but first we duck into the woods between the meadow and the pasture-hillside where we watch coyotes walk each day from the kitchen windows. Heather has her eye out for good greenery to harvest for wreath-making later that afternoon. I smile as we pass the thousand year old redwood with branches spiraling low enough that we are able to climb it from the ground up. I have only climbed it once, during my first acquaintance with this place two July’s ago. It seems I haven’t given it a formal hello since I’ve been back.

I am grateful, to the point of tears. For invitations and friendship. For Sunday morning walking and birds with a wing-span larger than NBA players. For fast moving clouds and glowing mountains that remind me that heaven is exactly where I am. For sacred places from childhood that continue to open themselves for us to touch when we need them, or even, when we forgot we needed them. For pie for breakfast and a bright pink rain coat. For meadows that remember children’s laughter and trees that lend us their branches. For pockets for cold hands and wind that holds us up, effortlessly.