May You Walk Slowly
There is a quiet wisdom in walking slowly.
In a world that hurries us along, that fills each moment with noise and demand, there is something deeply countercultural—almost rebellious—about choosing to walk with intention, to move with reverence. When we slow our pace, we return to the rhythm of the soul. We begin to notice the subtle beauty—the way light spills through leaves, the hush of wind through grass, the hush of a child’s breath as they sleep. We begin to remember the presence of the sacred in the smallest things.
To listen deeply is to offer the world our full presence. It is to lean in—not only to the voices around us but also to the quiet stirrings within. Deep listening asks us to soften, to release our need to respond or fix, and instead simply to receive. When we listen in this way, we begin to hear not just words, but longing. Not just sound, but spirit. We hear the story beneath the story, the ache behind the silence.
And in those moments—when we walk slowly and listen deeply—something ancient begins to awaken in us. A remembrance. A knowing. That no matter where we are, we are already standing on sacred ground.
We are so often taught to seek the holy “out there”—in distant places, in perfect circumstances, in someone wiser, purer, more enlightened. But the true invitation is far gentler. It is not to chase the sacred, but to recognize it. To remember that the place we stand now, however ordinary or broken, is already blessed. The kitchen where we wash dishes. The bus stop in the rain. The quiet ache of our own chest as we breathe through sorrow.
All of it—holy.
When we embrace this truth, we begin to live differently. We meet each moment as a threshold. We begin to trust that love, healing, and grace do not arrive only when life is neat and orderly—but precisely in the messy middle, in the places we didn’t think to look.
So may you walk slowly.
May you listen deeply.
And may you remember:
There is no place you can go
that is not already holy.
BLESSING FROM MY HEART TO YOURS
May you find yourself slowing down, not out of weariness, but from a quiet trust that life is not a race to be won but a presence to be entered. May you move through your days not by urgency, but by reverence for the hidden rhythms that speak through stillness.
May your ears become attuned to the music beneath words—the pauses, the sighs, the subtle invitations life offers when we truly listen. And when you do not know what to say, may you remember that silence too can be a sacred response.
May your steps, however ordinary, become acts of consecration. Whether you walk on stone, soil, or sorrow, may you recognize that every path you tread holds something holy, not because it is perfect, but because it carries you.
May you remember that you are never far from grace. That even in confusion or fatigue, even in places that seem overlooked or unloved, the sacred is near. It is not something to reach for—it is something to remember.
And when your heart feels lost or your spirit weary, may a quiet knowing rise within you—that there is no place you can go where the light of presence has not already gone before you.
May this knowing give you rest, and may it return you to the miracle of now.
I love You,
An
Comments
Post a Comment