I walked a trail last week at what I thought was a slow pace. Then I stopped to tie my boot and noticed the rock I was leaning against was covered in moss. Not just a patch. An entire surface of it, thick and vivid, with at least three different varieties growing in what looked like a miniature landscape.
I had walked past that rock dozens of times. I had never once seen the moss.
It made me wonder how much I miss even on my slowest walks. We talk about "slowing down" like it is a single gear shift, but I think there are layers to it. There is slow, and then there is slow enough to notice moss. Slow enough to see that a spider has built a web between two ferns. Slow enough to realize the sound you thought was wind is actually a stream you cannot see yet.
The Japanese have a concept called "microseasons," where they divide the year into 72 tiny periods based on subtle natural changes. Things like "first peach blossoms" or "caterpillars become butterflies." It requires a quality of attention that most of us have trained out of ourselves. Not because we lack the ability, but because we are always on our way to somewhere else.
I am trying to walk at moss pace this week. No distance goal. Just attention.
What is the smallest thing you have noticed on a walk recently? The kind of thing most people would walk right past. I would love to hear it.
Steven
