Plant Walk

 

This morning, I thought I’d take my mountain bike and explore the McDowell Sonoran Preserve. It was a good plan—a plan of movement, effort, and tackling mountains on wheels. But when I went to load the bike, I found one tire flat, deflated as if mirroring my initial resolve. A sigh escaped me, and I faced a choice: repair it and ride or shift the day’s rhythm entirely? The hike called to me instead.

Driving toward the preserve, I wrestled with irritability, a low-grade storm within me ignited by unbidden judgments of my fellow humans. Why was I so consumed with thoughts of others, their imagined failings, and their imagined lives? I turned off the music, seeking a quiet that could unravel the knot in my chest. In the silence, I found a momentary truce with myself.

I took a deep breath at Sunrise Trail’s parking lot and grabbed my trail pack. The trail's incline began immediately, challenging my legs and lungs. It’s a trail close to homes, and humanity's proximity remained inescapable. The sounds of leaf blowers, barking dogs, and distant voices grated against my efforts to center my higher self. My steps quickened into a soft jog until the human world faded behind the symphony of desert life: the songs of birds, the rustle of wind through the scrub, and that peculiar hum of stillness that resides in the spaces between sounds.

Breaking away from the trail, I wandered into a hidden ravine. Here, the desert revealed itself in its subtler forms. I found a boulder to sit upon and watched the shadows of a palo verde tree move in rhythm with the breeze. Time unspooled itself. Before me stood an ironwood tree, a creosote bush, and dormant brittlebushes, their patient forms biding the return of rain. In this space, my plant aperture opened wide, and the desert began to speak.

She spoke of drought, of the thirst that binds all creatures, of roots stretching desperately through arid soil. She whispered of the animals that move within her embrace, adapting to the unrelenting scarcity of water. There was more—so much more she shared—but her words were gifts for my heart alone, sustenance for those moments when my humanness threatens to obscure my deeper self.

The drive home was silent, the earlier irritations dissolved into peace. My thoughts turned to water: its fluidity, its power to carve canyons and dissolve mountains. This morning, I had sought to conquer mountains, first on my bike, then on foot. But my higher nature had led me to a softer conquest—one of stillness, of listening, of communion. The desert, in her wisdom, had reminded me of the flow and grace of water, a lesson I’d carry forward.

As I reflected, it became clear that my calling was not to hike in the traditional sense, measuring progress in miles or elevation gained. Instead, I was called to walk with the plants, to stoop close to the earth, to hear the stories held within a single leaf or the bark of an ancient tree. Greg often hikes ahead, his steps quick and purposeful, while I linger behind, entranced by the mysteries rooted in the soil.

From now on, I will not say, “I am going for a hike.” With intention, I will say, “I am going on a Plant Walk.” For it is not the act of escape I seek but the act of connection, the quiet partnership with the plants that guide me, teach me, and remind me who I really am.

In "Beauty" dear fellow human, In "Beauty"...