Burning Beneath

Today I went on a peace walk.

I had invited a few people at first, out of politeness, maybe out of habit, maybe out of a quiet sense of loneliness. But underneath that, I knew something else was true: I wanted to go alone. When I arrived and found myself by myself, I felt relief. I listened to that.

Before we began walking, we gathered in a circle to set intentions and share a few guidelines. During that moment, a woman became emotional — not from sadness, but from joy. She was moved by being around people and by doing something she loved.

As I noticed her, I also noticed myself.

My instinct rose immediately: the urge to comfort, to hug, to respond physically to emotion. I walked toward her, then stopped. I asked for permission before offering a hug, and she agreed. Later, I reflected on that moment. Not because it was wrong, but because it revealed something about me — how quickly I want to act on what I feel, how easily I assume that what I feel should move outward.

Noticing that doesn’t mean suppressing who I am. It means learning to be more respectful of space — mine and others’. It means understanding that presence alone is sometimes enough.

When the walk began, I intentionally placed myself at the back of the group. I wasn’t separating myself from the purpose of the walk — I was choosing how to be in it. I wanted to walk in peace, not as a participant on display, but as someone simply present.

I wasn’t there for show.

I wasn’t there to be seen.

I was there to feel.

As I walked alone, I made a conscious decision to set aside the urge to take pictures. I noticed how automatic that impulse is — to capture beauty, to turn moments into something to keep or share. Instead, I chose to experience what was around me directly.

And there was so much.

I noticed fallen logs covered in unusual leaves, patterns I wouldn’t have seen if I had been moving quickly. I reached down and touched moss that felt unexpectedly smooth beneath my fingers. I traced the cracks in old wood, followed the grain with my hands, and noticed branches and stalks pushing up through the frozen ground, tinted with deep purples and muted browns.

It struck me then — beneath all this cold, life is still here. Preserved. Waiting.

I placed my hands against tree trunks again and again, noticing the contrast between their dark, pale winter skin and the warmth in my palms. I looked at my fingers resting there and felt something quiet move through me — not awe, not reverence, but gratitude.

A gentle thank you.

For the trees that give life.

For holding the ground.

For standing through seasons I don’t see.

At one point, I rested my forehead against a tree and cried. Not suddenly, not dramatically. It felt like a continuation of everything before it — the slowing down, the touching, the noticing. A peaceful release. I stayed with it instead of stepping away.

I also noticed life moving around me.

Two deer ran playfully through the trees. One paused briefly and looked at me before continuing on. I saw squirrels darting through the brush, a blue jay, a red cardinal. Nothing symbolic. Nothing to interpret. Just life unfolding alongside mine.

When the walk ended, we gathered again in a circle to reflect. The guide opened the space and invited us to share what we had noticed or felt during the walk.

As I listened, something steady rose in me. When it was my turn, I spoke about my experience — about slowing down, about choosing presence over distraction, about how deeply I value connection. I shared my hope of creating a community circle one day, a space where people can come together without performance, without fixing, simply to feel connected and seen.

From that place, gently and without expectation, I asked if they would be willing to try something with me.

I invited everyone, if they felt comfortable, to take off their gloves and hold hands. I asked them to notice the warmth moving through their bodies, through their minds, and to imagine sending love and positive energy through the circle — not outward, not abstractly, but to each other.

This is something I believe in deeply: that connection grows when we allow ourselves to feel it, when we choose presence together.

As I spoke, I also noticed my fear — the hesitation that still lives in me about taking the first step, about fully standing in what I want to create. Both were there at once: the clarity, and the fear.

And that felt honest.

As the circle ended and I listened to others speak, something became clear — something I’ve been circling for a long time.

That constant urge to do something.

To move.

To go.

To spend.

To fill space.

For years, that urge has pulled me into choices that didn’t truly serve me or anyone else — restless movement, unnecessary spending, occupying time instead of listening to what wanted to be created.

Today, I saw it differently.

It isn’t restlessness.

It’s creative energy without direction.

And when I slow down enough to notice it, it points me toward something meaningful — creating spaces for connection, building my community circle, offering something rooted in presence rather than distraction.

This walk wasn’t about peace as an idea.

It was about practicing it.

By noticing my impulses.

By accepting them without judgment.

And by choosing — gently — to respond differently.

That felt like peace.