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Writer's picturecherylmurfin

Walking into community



I take long, long walks to gift myself the time and space to give my unproductive overthinking a rest and allow the words of my heart to navigate their way to the page.


And that does happen as the miles go by. Something lifts from my brain—the frenetic energy of my too-busy life, the anxiety around which direction to go next, and my painful focus on the ecological and human crises that continue in this world but which make no sense at all in the year 2024.


As I put one foot in front of another across a dew-kissed moor or slip-slide down a boggy path, the rhythm of my strides is the only thing that demands my attention. The direction is clear if you watch for the blazes marking the way. And it's easy to find even if you miss a blaze, which I frequently do as I crouch down to photograph slugs and flora. As for the world's concerns, they are there waiting for my return, my indignity, and rage. But in this space, I commit to not scratching the constant itch to check and be horror-struck by the news.


Just for these ten days. Just for this breath.


This month, I realized there's another reason why I walk and why I walk this way—with others. I do it to stretch and grow as a person, as a human, in a community built around a shared love of writing. We come together not just to walk, not just to write, but also to listen, to hear, to hold.


If you've been following A Voice on A Road, you know I've taken long walks with many people over the years. Together, we've walked across countries, up mountains, through all kinds of weather. We've stepped in a lot of cow patties. Most recently and uncomfortably, we walked together through the cold North Sea waves surrounding a holy little island.


Each walk brings moments of "What the hell am I doing out here." But each also brings moments of pure grace and friendship born of shared challenge and introspection. I am grateful to each writer who has braved a long path with me.


I will tell you now, in this first of nine posts from last month's walk, that the four women writers who joined me blew my hope for connection and community out of the water. Each is a gifted writer: Between them are thousands of poems, countless articles for magazines and other publications, one creative writing MFA program instructor, four Master's degrees, a PhD, and at least 11 books.


As someone who sometimes falls prey to that devil called "compare and despair," I was a little intimidated before I met them in person.


It was wasted and unwarranted energy. Besides all that talent, these walking writers were deeply thoughtful, kind, curious, and open to the lessons of a pilgrimage path.


The rhythm of any group walk is fluid; walkers flow toward and away from each other as space and the need for connection or quietude unfold. Thus, over the days, I listened with intention to stories from their lives and was moved to share my own in new and significant ways. I will call these conversations life-changing; between the start and end of our walking together, I was widened, broadened, and unburdened of heavy parts of my story that I thought I'd put down long ago, only to discover I did not.



There are days—thankfully far less than in other times in my life—when I feel utterly alone in carrying my backpack of abandonments, insults, and other past pain. By the end of our walk, I felt less alone, my pack lightened.


In the next few posts, I'll do what I've done before by sharing thoughts and writing from this particular road at this specific moment. You already know the path; I've walked it and written it here before. Still, I find this path is new, bringing new insights and a new dance with words every time I travel on it. Each day, I'll share the writing that fell from the prompts we used on the road. Give them a try. I'd love to see what words come to you. I hope you find something helpful or inspiring as you read along.


Speaking of which, I place you on that list of gratitudes, the one I have for the writers who accompany me. Thank you for taking the time to read my words and join me as I journey.



 

THE PROMPT

ART: Grab some sketching materials and your writing implement. Take a walk. Play close attention to the world of this walk. Find a place to stop and zero in on just one piece of the environment around you. Draw that piece of the path. Get every detail. Take your time—spend 20 minutes drawing without judging what comes out. This is not a competition. Nobody will laugh at your art. It's for you. It's play and focus. While you are drawing what you are drawing, have a conversation with your subject.

WRITE: Wrap that thing you focused on into a piece of writing. Any genre.

 

Conversation with a rock


you rise up

porous

hard-edged

peeking above the waterline

grounded beneath

holding up the earth.

did you trip me on purpose 

as I sat down at the river’s edge?

was it your invitation to fall

and meet you eye to eye? 

when was the last time you moved? 

was is down river or up from red mud of this forest floor?

was it an inch or a mile?

and do you miss your sister

who I met just yesterday 

rooted within the roots of a giant beech?

by the way, 

you needn’t have caused my fall;

a trail of small white feathers

lead directly to your resting place

as if the birds required us to meet,

as if this were always in the plan

which plan? you ask

and that is the only question, isn’t it?

and this is the only answer:

this plan

this one in which I meet you

and you meet me

and each of becomes part of the others’ story

and mourning doves coo above us

confirming the truth of it all.


— Cheryl Murfin, 2024


Conversation with a rock II


"How do you say hello in stone?"


"You don’t."


"Then how do we start this conversation?"


"We listen."


"Ok. We listen.


"I’m listening…"


"If you’re talking, you aren’t listening."


"Oh, right.


Um, what are we listening to?"


"Each other."


"Ok, got it!


Excuse me, are you still there? You’re so quiet."


"Exactly."


"I don’t get it. Are you trying to tell me something?


"Hello? 


"Yoohooo! Hello? Am I missing something here?


"You are, indeed.

"You are missing everything.

"Just listen."


— Cheryl Murfin, 2024




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