Author: stephsimply

            “. . .Walk as if you are kissing the Earth with your feet . . .

so that your blood with bring the color of love to your face,

so that the wonders of life will appear,

and all anxieties will be transformed into

peace and joy. “—Thich Nhat Hanh

“Oh no! We’re going to have to do one of those mindfulness walks again; I can just tell! I hate those!” declared one student, voice filled with indignation

“I kinda like them,” added another student sheepishly.

Though I had not announced a mindfulness walk to the students of a class in which I co-teach with another dear educator entitled, “Move into Health,” a few attentive students must have sensed my intention. After all, I had asked them to line-up to head outside on a weekday we typically spend inside.   What the students did not yet realize was that our class-size was going to be nearly double on that day due to another elective class joining us as their teacher was sick; thus, we would not all fit into one classroom. Besides, it was the end of the day, the weather was surprisingly pleasant, and it was the week of Trick-or-Treat—a week in which all K-8 students, it has been my experience, hit a wall, become cranky, tired, and much less focused. Fresh air would do all of them some good, and frankly, benefit my colleague and me too.

Our students have completed a total of four mindfulness walks this school year–one in August, one in September, one in October, and now, one in November. Furthermore, our school is blessed to have a small walking path that loops around one of our playgrounds and the staff parking lot. Unfortunately, most students do not use the entire path.   This is because half of the trail is out of the view of teachers supervising their recess time. However, through our supervised mindfulness walks, students in our class can take advantage of the entire peaceful path.

Long ago, I discovered the joys of this path as a transition between work and home. It began after one particularly noisy, stressful, and busy day. I stepped outside into the bright sunshine, took a deep breath, and sighed trying to release the anxious tightness that constricted many of my muscles. I continued walking, but took several more deep breaths, noticing the rich scent of warm earth, dead leaves, and the smell of sun-warmed asphalt as I headed to my car. Once at my car, my eye kept being drawn to the trees and shrubs surrounding the part of the path that loops around our parking lot—the section in which our students do not regularly play during recess. Placing my school parcels in the back of my car and without really thinking, I headed toward the path.

Underneath my feet, leaves crunched, then faded as my footsteps quietly padded over a mossy spot. Inhaling once more, the scents became more earthy and fragrant than the parking lot area. This shaded section of the path was observably cooler, the pigments more vivid and less washed out: asparagus colored green moss, interspersed with rusty amber leaves, dotted with leaves the color of garnets, margarine, and oranges like the skin of a Clementine that was turning brown with age. All the while, I could hear the flow of the end-of-work-day traffic, joined with birds in song, and a nearby church’s bells chiming to the tune, “He Leadeth Me,” a long-ago song I once learned to play on the piano and had not heard in years.

Leaving the shaded area of the path, seemingly harsh sunlight, once again, pierced my vision. Sounds under my feet changed to the grinding-crunch of gravel underfoot which was soon softened by sand underfoot, which then turned into the firmness of concrete, and finally to the uneven tones that accompany walking over lumpy ground, tree roots, and mulch. The sun warmed my skin with a kiss of heat on my cheeks as the moving air slightly brushed my hair. Inhale, scents of concrete, mulch, and dirt. Exhale, muscles relaxing, face and eyes softening.   While, at the time, I did not think of it as a “mindfulness walk,” this less than ten-minute excursion became the seed of experience from which the students’ current activity evolved.

The instructions to the students are fairly simple. No talking until after the walk; and instead, simply walk and observe. What do you smell? What do you see? What do you hear? What do you feel? What do you notice? What has changed since we last walked? What do you think? Usually, we walk full two full loops, then circle up as group, and sit, often basking in ample sunshine, discussing our observations.

On this particular walk, a Marshall University P.E./Health major and future educator joined us. As we gathered the nearly 40 students of grades 6-8 together, he joined my co-worker and me as we led a dialogue of what the students noticed and/or felt. When the MU student was asked to share his thoughts on the experience with our middle school students, he boldly shared with the kids that he could feel the presence of God embracing us as we walked, surrounding us with beauty, peace, and love. This led me to ask the students if any of them felt closer to God as we walked. One brave 6^th grade, freckle-faced boy raised his hand and earnestly stated,

“I felt prayful, like God was right here listening to me.”

Beside one section of the student accessed path is a “peaceful bench” for students, or teachers, who need to sit and feel the peace of God.

What seeds are planted in our students during our walks, I may never know. What I do know, is that for 20-plus minutes of time, none of us are plugged into devices, chattering, or participating in any number of typically distracting activities. And, while I cannot state that every student who participates in the mindfulness walks goes home feeling calmer, closer to God, more mindful of the seasonal beauty, or filled with a grateful heart, just knowing that one middle school student and one college student felt that way after one walk was enough. It was certainly enough.

           “Joyful, joyful, we adore Thee, God of glory, Lord of love;

Hearts unfold like flow’rs before Thee, op’ning to the sun above.”—Henry van Dyke

It was Saturday, and I had several errands that needed completed by weekend’s end. Would I have enough time? I felt anxious. Perhaps, I should not have slept in until 7:00 am.

I left the house around 8:30 am, list in-hand. First stop, my local bank. My stomach was fluttering with worry. Stepping out of the car, the sunshine felt warm and cozy, like wrapping up in my favorite hoodie and sweatpants after work. I looked up and vividly blue sky, streaked with white stretched like the pillow-fill Maddie uses when sewing pillows. The sun kissed my upturned cheeks.

“Melt the clouds of sin and sadness; Drive the dark of doubt away;

Giver of immortal gladness, fill us with the light of day.”

I entered the bank and was greeted by all of the tellers. Bonnie, a long-standing employee, directed me to come to her.

“Well, how’s life without your daughter, and how is she doing?”

Just that question, alone, warmed my heart. How thoughtful of her to ask. I shared a bit of information regarding Maddie, my daughter—probably more than she wanted to hear. Then, I thanked her for asking.

“I think about her often and wonder how she is doing?”

While I would not call Bonnie a complete stranger, it is not like we are best friends; and yet, she thought of my daughter. What a wonder! I could feel myself smiling as I left the bank. Such a small act of kindness, but it helped assuage my apprehension.

“All thy works with joy surround Thee, earth and heav’n reflect Thy rays,

Stars and angels sing around Thee, center of unbroken praise.”

Crossing the bridge into Huntington, I couldn’t help but notice how golden the morning was unfolding over the mighty Ohio River. Water glinted with silver as if thousands of sewing needles danced on top of the water. I decided to grab a cup of coffee from the shop Maddie and I used to frequent in the mornings before school when she was still home. It seemed like ages since I had last visited.

The sun was dazzling. Huntington was quiet, and the streets were fairly empty. A cheerful young woman bounced along the sidewalk walking her likewise lively dog. His fluffy red tail swished back and forth with metronome-like meticulousness.

“Hi, Stephanie. Haven’t seen you in a while. The usual?”

How did he remember me, much less what I drink?

“How’s your daughter? Where is she now?”

This time, I kept my answer short and to the point.

“Well, we miss seeing you two in here,” he said with a smile as he handed me my coffee.

“Field and forest, vale and mountain, flow’ry meadow, flashing sea,

Singing bird and flowing fountain call us to rejoice in Thee.”

Driving on to what was supposed to be the next errand stop, I become lost in my thoughts. I recalled a former kindergarten student I had encountered the previous night, Alexa. Her freckled face lit up with recognition, and I found myself enveloped in her warm embrace. Breaking away from our hug, she turned, face still broad with a gleeful smile and offered kind words to my husband, John, who had also been her teacher when she was a bit older. My heavens, it was wonderful to see her, now at age 21, and know she still had fond memories of her time spent with John and me.

It was then I realized I was driving on autopilot, not focused on my next errand, and was heading towards the school in which I now work. Instead of becoming frustrated with myself, I chose to turn it into an opportunity to head to Ritter Park, walk for a few minutes, and savor the splendid sunshine. Besides, I had not visited the park in over a month, and walking outside does wonders for my spirit.

Nearly blinding and abundant sunshine was interspersed with areas of cool, sweet shade. Colors of fall were clearly emerging—tarnished golds, leathery browns, rich merlots, and vibrant reds intermingled with fading, dull greens. Sand colored leaves now scattered over the path permitting a slight crunching sound that whispered, “This is only the beginning of a new season.” I could feel myself smiling, as I became the proverbial sponge, soaking up God’s goodness as more of my fretfulness fell away.

            “Thou are giving and forgiving, ever blessing, ever blest,

Wellspring of the joy of living, ocean depth of happy rest!

“Hi Mrs. Hill!”

I had completed a full loop of the park, walked up by the rose garden, further up through the rolling hills of the amphitheater, to the very top of the outlook where a large shelter once stood, down to the dog park, and then left, down the hill towards the tennis courts. I looked across the road to a tennis court. There stood one my current students enthusiastically waving at me.

By the end of the walk, I was at peace with the thought, “I will do what I can do today, and leave the rest behind.”

           “Thou our Father, Christ our Brother, all who live in love are Thine;

Teach us how to love each other—Lift us to the joy divine.”

          On the following day, we celebrated my dear, sweet mother-in-law’s 89th birthday, a few days before her officials date of October 10.

“Stephanie, how are you? How’s John?”

I looked up from the shopping cart at Route 60 Kroger, and there stood my former, physician. Several years ago, he sadly moved his practice from Proctorville to one closer to his home in Milton, while his kids were in their early teens. He had worked closely with John and me, and, at the time, his moving felt like losing a family-member.   Nonetheless, I was stunned, some years later, he would not only recognize me, but also recall John’s name as well as mine—after all, how many patients did he see? Once again, I delighted in conversation with another special person.

********************************************************************************

“Hi Neil! I am so glad you’re bagging my groceries today.   You’re my favorite bagger!”

I was looking at the young man that frequently bagged my groceries with an imploring smile. I purposely search each week for the line in which he bags because he is thoughtful, carefully places products in bags, and then gently arranges bags in my cart. Plus, he always offers to help carry them to my car. So far, I have declined his offer, but it is a nice gesture anyway.

“I was having a bad day until you said that to me,” he replied in his uniquely gravelly voice. “I don’t hear nice things from customers that often. Thank you.”

Later, once home, I was further overjoyed to talk with both of my parents—which is always a special treat.

In the end, most chores on the day’s to-do list were completed; the rest could be knocked out the following day at some point. More importantly, I was reminded of the joy of living a life that matters—maybe not on a grand scale, like a politician or entertainer, but rather in the simple day-to-day gestures that are frequently undervalued; such as, greeting another person by name, asking a personal question or two, wishing someone a good day, taking time exchange pleasantries, smiling, or even offering a hug. It is these seemingly effortless acts that quite often offer a momentary minute of joy.

            “You who dwell in the shelter of the Lord, who abide in his shadow for life. Say to the Lord: My refuge, my rock in whom I trust!” —lyrics from the song On Eagle’s Wings, written by Michael Joncas based upon Psalm 31 and Isaiah 40:31

It began last weekend. I first perceived a sore throat Friday evening after dinner, but thought nothing of it. After all, I am a teacher; I use my voice all week long. Most likely, my throat, like the rest of my body, was just tired from the week’s work. Saturday morning, however, unable to breathe through my nose, throat feeling as if someone had poured scalding water down it, head aching, and wads of discarded tissues increasing in the trashcan led me the conclusion, I had acquired a minor cold.

When you have a head cold, at least for me, my thinking can be a bit foggy at times. Ironically enough, I couldn’t help but notice the mornings, this past week, were similarly foggy. Early morning, as John, my husband, and I traversed to the local gym, we drove through fog as dense as my grandmother’s chicken and dumplin’ gravy. Similarly, this is what I envisioned my head cold was doing to my brain, blurring my thinking the way the fog was muddling the our view of the road and surrounding landscape.

          “The snare of the fowler will never capture you, and famine will bring you no fear; Under his wings your refuge, his faithfulness your shield.”

Nonetheless, I persevered well enough through the day, but by evening was more fatigued than usual. Along with that fatigue came the fact, I felt a bit more stressed, a bit more overwhelmed, and a bit more “behind.” In fact, I cannot tell you how often I stated or thought, “I am so far behind,” or “I can’t keep up.”

Piles of papers, in need of grading, were in constant stack on my desk. Likewise, my inbox of email was growing. Tests needed typed. Equipment/technology wasn’t working the way it should. I had this deadline, and that deadline; this request to fulfill, and that request to honor. I felt like the box turtles I often see sluggishly moving across our backyard as I slowly, but steadily made my way through each moment, each situation, and each day. Still, fog clouded my sense of accomplishment—altering my perception.

          “You need not fear the terror of the night, nor the arrow that flies by day; Though thousands fall about you, near you it shall not come”

Of note, though, was a conversation I had with a student and her parents one evening during the week. John and I ran into this family during dinner out a local favorite, La Famiglia. Somehow, in the course of our conversation, the student was sharing with us some of her favorite songs she sang in our school choir, and one of those songs happened to be On Eagle’s Wings—one of my personal favorites. I shared with her how it always reminded me of my maternal grandmother, with whom I had the honor of living for two years.

Grandmother Helen read from her large print Bible every night before going to bed. Some nights, if her eyes were tired, she would ask me to read to her. Isaiah, Chapter 40 was a frequent request. She especially loved verse 31.

In the meantime, Friday finally arrived, and my cold was beginning to dissipate in the same manner fog is gradually burned off with the morning sun. With Friday, comes school mass. If I am to be totally honest, when I first arrived at St. Joseph Catholic School five years ago, giving up class time every week to a church service was not an easy adjustment.   Now, however, I see and appreciate the beauty and reasoning behind it.

     “For to his angels, he’s given command to guard you in all of your way; Upon their hands they will bear you up, lest you dash your foot again a stone.”

First, there is the powerful image of seeing our entire K-8 staff and students, of diverse faith backgrounds, respectfully gathered together in church filling nearly every pew. To this day, it never fails to stir me, and honestly, make me smile. I love seeing the students actively participating in church and observing their growth from year to year.

Secondly, and more personally speaking, I often feel more receptive on Friday. Perhaps, it is because I am tired; maybe it is because Father Dean’s message is simple; maybe it is hearing the voices of children singing; or, maybe it is the image of all students raising their hands during the recitation of Lord’s Prayer; and, maybe it is all of it combined. Whatever the reason, Friday church resonates within my being.

This week was no exception. As Divine Providence would have it, the communion hymn was On Eagle’s Wings. As I knelt in prayer following communion, my mind, for whatever reason, became filled with various images in rapid-fire succession: Sitting with my Dad and three siblings as he read to us the Christmas story from Luke every Christmas Eve when I was a child. My mom fitting me for a dress she was sewing for my high school graduation—the same dress that would be cut up some 16 years later to become my daughter’s baptism dress. Watching my husband, napping on the couch, with our daughter curled up on top of his chest when she was only weeks old. Attending my daughter’s matriculation ceremony as she began her college career as an eagle dipped and darted above the gathering. Sitting on the couch beside Grandmother in her recliner, reading to her in the low lamplight of her family room. Sitting with my mom during my grandmother’s last night on earth as I kept rereading Isaiah 40 aloud as my way of saying good-bye. Standing with my Dad, Stepmother, daughter, and other family members when I saw my paternal Mamaw take her last earthly breath.

     “And he will raise you up on eagle’s wings, bear you on the breath of dawn. Make you to shine like the sun, and hold you in the palm of his hands.”

The work, the deadlines, the requests, and the emails—all of that could wait. Maybe this is why Friday mass is so good for me.   In the same way I had sipped broth this week for my cold, perhaps mass was the soup for my soul– clearing brain fog—often brought on my loss of perspective rather than a cold.

**Afterthought not written in the newspaper edition of this:

As I waited with the Middle School students for our turn to exit from Friday mass, the same student with whom I had had the conversation at La Familigia, regarding On Eagles’ Wings, came down from the choir loft and walked straight to me, mouth stretched in a broad smile.

“Mrs. Hill, I thought of you the whole time I was singing.  I know I much you said you loved the song,” she exclaimed with twinkling eyes as she gave me a hug.

That hug and smile felt as if I were receiving a second helping of soup for my soul.