Walking Slow on Frozen Toes

On Sunday I borrow my daughter-in-law’s lined snow boots. Being a size larger than mine and well-insulated I hope they will be roomier and warmer for my tender swollen toes. My poor frozen toes. It has been four weeks now and still the waxy, discolored, two swollen toes feel a bit foreign to the touch. The hurting, burning, throbbing at nights reminds me they are my toes.

I sorely miss my long neighborhood walks impossible on my damaged toes for weeks now. My walks are a daily lifelong joy/need for my well-being. I borrow her boots to do a backyard shuffle (in our generously large yard). I walk two rounds with my husband before he leaves to shoot hockey pucks in the carport. I sit in a chair in the chicken shed out of the elements. I decide to walk one more round alone.

My mind grumbles, “Can't do a real walk… stuck in my backyard!” I let go. I recall my morning meditation reading from Richard Wagamese’s book, “Embers.”

“…the notion that stillness is more enriching than motion, listening is more empowering than distraction and slow, measured steps feel more graceful than speed…”

Well, I know of the sacred in walking slowly. Lack of air during weeks of respiratory bouts I suffered every winter since COVID taught me to slow my walk. No longer “gotta do 6-10,000 steps, walk 4 km at least” mentality for me. (Even though, if I were honest, it was a bit of this pushing to walk a bit further in -18-degree cold that led to frost bitten toes. I dismissed the hurt as crooked toes rubbing☹

This Sunday I slowed to a mindful heel – toe, fully present walk. Behold! A high pitch peeping, movement flashing in and out of our Fir trees and neighbor’s cedar hedge. Black-headed, grey-bodied, long-tailed Junco’s darted about in their usual frenzied flight. Miniature rockets. A joy in the heart of winter.

Then, a sound to my right. Slowly I pivot to face Great Grandmother Fir that oversees our yard (and the neighbors). Movement upon her deeply grooved, moss-laden bark catches my eye. Hurry, scurry. Stop. Look. Squirrel flashes down the tree towards me in small bursts of speed then: Freeze. Look. Skitter. Freeze. This until he reaches my eye level barely ten feet away. He swivels his grey-brown fluffy body, flashing his white belly, chest, and little patch of white on his chin. Faces me. Freezes. Brown orb eyes – huge on his tiny head – stare at me. Our gazes lock in silence.

Then bushy tail flattening upon his back he flashes up the tree to nearest branch above my head. Looking down at me he gives me a high-pitched scolding. I stand, holding to my territory too. I try to reassure him. I mean no harm. It is no good. This is his territory, and I am to leave. I thank him for the sweet meet and greet moment we shared.

I realize, when I slowed… became fully present then, the magic and awe in life bloomed within me.