I set out with intentions to just walk. To be present. To look. To meet the hills where they are, as they are – asking nothing in return other than having the privilege of one last walk.

It rained last night, leaving a few welcome puddles along the curb and small dusty pools of water on the hood of the car that will take us home tomorrow. The residual cloud cover seemed fitting to my mood.

I saw my first (dead) snake in the road – just a little, lifeless gray rope that made me jumpy until I realized it was dead. I passed the little leaning lending library and the mustard-yellow yarrow plant that I co-opted, with Mary, as my own. I passed and glanced over at #213, the house that we dreamed of buying, and with surprising ease renewed our decision to release and visualize it as a blessing for someone else.

I walked down the hill – yes, the faded green toy froggie was still there, and up the hill – still huffing and puffing more than what I would have liked. A deer stopped munching to stare at me. I took a photo of him. A puppy barked in the distance. A magpie flew and landed in the very top of the pine in our neighbor’s yard.

All of the ordinary showed up with nothing and everything special. It will be here next year, yes, but, will I? Does it matter? No, not really. I am here now.

-excerpt from The Hills of Durango to the Heart of the Soul, in process. Stay tuned!