I went on a “thisness” walk

We’ve been in the farm for two months now, two months of watching tiny things grow into tall stalky things, two months of looking out the window every night around 9:30 saying “I can’t believe it’s still light out!”

During these many weeks I’ve walked to the vegetable field hundreds of times, but I didn’t really arrive in this new place until I started making a habit of “thisness walks” as I walk the quarter mile path several times a day. Often stuck in my head or fidgeting with my phone or absorbed in a podcast, I have missed out on the glory of this place because of trivial distractions. So I take slow walks with the intention of simply paying attention.

I love the term “thisness” more than the concept of meditation because that, for me, implies more doing. I love it more than mindfulness because that term always felt too heady. I love it because…this is it! And all I want to do is get to a place where I can love what is right in front of me - both the tenderness of a squeaky piglet and the maddening ache of chronic pain. To look at reality with a gaze of love, as my teacher Richard Rohr would say.

I went back to take photos of some of the small and simple wonders I observed from a recent thinness walk. I’d walked past this road dozens of times never to revel in the eternal optimism of the blue sky, the silly curl of a pig tail, and the purity of the freshest air I’ve ever breathed. I felt I could be with myself - perhaps for the first time since arriving - as the buzz of my inner static softly faded. I leaned against a fence picking the dirt under my fingernails. I dangled long grasses in front of the snouts of eager pigs. I took a deep, refreshing drink from my water bottle. I daydreamed. It was ordinary and simple, and yet that gravel path is now a newborn world each time I walk it.

Why did it take so long for me to arrive here?

I am finding that living on a rural farm has a funny way of showing you yourself as you really are - how spiritual you thought you were, how connected to the earth you imagined yourself to be, how comfortable you really are with silence. Which is to say I’m finding I’m more resistant to the quiet than I'd like to be.

I wonder if it’s because I’m a little bit addicted to my phone? Or that I constantly know what time it is? Or that I often take a bath while scrolling Instagram instead of soaking up time to myself?

So, with more and more practice, I’m discovering that my most idea-friendly times come when I’m working in the field. When I can be quiet and dreamy. Working the land has become a fundamental rhythm of my creative life: I hula hoe, I feel inspired and then I run back to my journal.