I’ve been walking with my father my entire life and long after his ended. I love him. I love him so much that he’s the tender earth, the laughter of particular birds, the moon and sun’s needless squabble over the sky in the last true minutes of morning. I love him so much that I started walking, by chance or design, on his birthday.

In this journey, I have shed many things that defined me. It has been scary. And hard. And sad. And wobbly. But I had my walking practice. Or it had me. Held me. Loved me. Honored the space I needed. I walked and walked and walked into the arms of the earth and into me. This me.

It’s winter. Not just any kind of winter, but January, a month that stings all the way through. 5 am is harder today than it was yesterday. My muscles are strung tightly, and my eyes are still filled with sleep. Silenced by the snow,  the world can only gesture a “good morning,” which it does with a single brown bird.

As a child, I was quite free-range. Then, like many adults, I lost touch with it. My life back then was wonderful and average. I was happy, but I wasn’t whole. But if I didn’t do something, I knew the part of me that was missing would be gone forever.

November is the month that I started my walking practice. November 3rd, to be exact. My dad’s birthday. I always try to take a very special walk on that day and ask my dad for advice. He always shows up.