I didn’t really know I needed the walk.
Nothing was wrong exactly. Nothing I could name.
But something in me felt a little dry, a little tight, like a room that hadn’t been aired out.
So I took my body out for a walk.
Or maybe my body took me — I’m not sure which.
Either way, we started moving.
At first it felt almost unnecessary. Just steps.
Up the hill, down the hill, flat ground in between.
Leaning into effort, then easing off again.
Breath finding its own rhythm.
Somewhere along the way my chest softened,
and thoughts stopped lining up like tasks
and began to move more like waves.
Nothing important came to mind.
Nothing needed to be solved.
By the time I turned back, something had quietly completed itself.
The way it does when the dishes are done and the sink is clean,
or when the bed is made in the morning.
No celebration — just the simple satisfaction
of order restored.
Only then did I realize I had been thirsty.
Not for anything specific — not answers or meaning —
just for this: movement, breath, the body listening.
The walk didn’t change my life.
But it left me feeling settled, put back together enough.
And as the clock kept moving on,
I knew that someday — without much warning —
the thirst would return.
And I would walk again.
Spiritual Gravity 