My Walden, Ten Days In

I am having my own Walden moment.

I am tapping out of the relentless rhythms of ordinary life and, paradoxically, finding myself held in both luxury and nature. I am surrounded by comfort and beauty, and yes—it feeds my soul. I am keenly aware of the privilege of this pause, just as Henry David Thoreau was aware of his when he withdrew to Walden Pond. It was there, supported by simplicity and space, that his most enduring insights emerged—ideas that have shaped our collective imagination for more than a century.

I do not presume to be another Thoreau. And yet, I trust that the same creative communion he accessed is available to all of us. That listening place. That channel of divine inspiration. Nature has always been my muse, echoing Homer’s ancient invocation: Sing through me, oh Muse…

So each day of my four-week sabbatical—ten days in and already profoundly changed—I begin with intention. I rise with the sun as it lifts itself over mist-softened hills. I eat breakfast outside, letting warmth touch my skin. And at the fullest, brightest part of the day, I give myself back to the living world: the ocean’s edge, a county park, a college arboretum, a reservoir holding sky and light in its basin.

Each day heals something.

With every breath and every step, there is release—and insight. Toxins out. Blessings in. I am breathing deeply for what feels like the first time in decades, perhaps not since I was six months pregnant with my oldest child twenty-six years ago. My body is letting go of long-held tension. My spirit is remembering how to lift, how to stretch, how to trust its own wings.

Birdsong becomes a refrain of joy. I notice the darting of small creatures through brush and branches. I feel myself gathered up, held—by the Divine, by Earth herself. The Sacred Mother wraps me in reassurance: Breathe. You are safe. All is well. You are alive. I am reminded that I have permission to live fully, unapologetically, just as trees and animals and waters do—without judgment, without self-doubt, without shame.

As Joyce Kilmer so simply and beautifully wrote:

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray…

A tree does not strive. It does not apologize. It simply lifts its leafy arms to the sun.

There is a small park just over half a mile from where I am staying—quiet, wooded, dotted with hills and generous rocks inviting rest. A narrow creek winds through it, traced by a dusty little trail. I have always loved the sound of moving water, that bright, tinkling music nature offers freely.

One afternoon I came upon a stagnant stretch, choked with debris. No Pooh sticks could float here.

I smiled, remembering how much I loved playing Pooh sticks with my children when they were small—and how, even now, I cannot resist the urge to play whenever I stand on a bridge over flowing water. And there, beside that blocked creek, the question arrived gently but clearly: What needs to be cleared for the water to move again? What needs to be cleared in me so my own life-force can flow—so my music can return?

Thank you, Mother Nature. I hear you.

I used to get lost often when hiking, such a poor sense of direction. But on this day, something was different. I had no timetable. No destination. No expectation. As Lao Tzu teaches, the way is easy for one who has no preference. So I listened instead—to my body, my intuition, the subtle invitations of the trail. I turned when I felt called. I was never lost.

The hike unfolded perfectly, returning me to my path home just as my left foot let me know it had done enough for the day. There was even a restroom near the end—grace upon grace for this woman who always needs one. Then back again, three hills up, to my retreat home in Escondido.

It still makes me laugh that a place named Escondido—“hidden”—requires a highway sign so everyone can find it. And yet, perhaps I needed to come to a hidden place to find myself.

Thoreau famously wrote, “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life.” He stayed for two years, two months, and two days. I am here for four weeks. The measure of time matters less than the depth of presence.

Like Winnie-the-Pooh—wise in his own gentle way—I am remembering that “Sometimes the smallest things take up the most room in your heart.”

Ten days in, my heart feels larger already. And I am listening closely for what the woods, the water, and the quiet are still waiting to teach me.

A gentle invitation:
Where in your own life might the water be waiting to move again?
What would it take to clear just one small blockage—and listen for the music that follows?