There’s a track that I follow that winds through the paddocks to the trees at the back of our property. You first go through a gate and up a rise, and then as you start to make your way gently down, you enter a cluster of trees and the ground under your feet becomes less firm.
It shape shifts with the movement of the fallen leaves and your feet leave an imprint on the earth in a different way to what was possible only moments before, where the ground didn’t shape around you like clay.
I’ve broken my habit of looking down when I walk. Eyes to the horizon, I tell myself.
Eyes to the horizon.
It’s a simple act, the act of looking up. But it’s a life altering one. It changes not just my seeing, but my hearing and my feeling. The act of looking up changes my whole being.
I see the shape of the branches, of the leaves against the sky. I can hear the trees whispering.
She’s a little sad today, they might call to each other. Her footsteps don’t seem quite as light, they concur.
The wind carries the message on the air reaching the flower. It strains its stem further forward to meet me.
The horses catch the smell of the conversation and they pause, wondering what’s needed.
Whether we’re aware of it or not, we’re always witnessed.
There’s so much talk of attitude, of making sure yours is a good one. Of positive thinking and of controlling your thoughts.
But these days I see attitude as nothing more than the act of noticing; a decision of facing towards life or away from it, no matter how hard or bumpy or confusing the moment you are in might be.
It’s eyes to the horizon. Of making sure your present for all the things waiting to meet you.
That’s always enough.