Discovering, Defining, and Nurturing Glimmers

I took a walk with my dog the other day. This isn’t an uncommon occurrence. We take a stroll around the neighborhood, a park, or a muddy trail nearly every day—except for Sundays. Sundays are for rest usually. The difference with this particular walk, however, was that I wasn’t in a rush.

Bucky, my dog, is never in a rush. He gives his full attention to whatever patch of grass he’s smelling, the flock of birds daring to fly overhead, or the stranger he’s hoping might say hello and ask to pet him. I can’t say the same for myself. While my body is moving, short legs attempting to keep up with his rather gangly ones, my head is scattered. I wonder how much time remains of my lunch break, I recall the ever-evolving to-do list that sits in my Notes app, and I fret over wondering if I’ll have the energy to do everything that supposedly needs to get done. On the outside, I’m walking with my dog. On the inside, I’m riddled with stress and anxiety. To be honest, I’m burnt out. 

These internal storms of discomfort often become a dull roar, but they’re there, and they swell with momentum when an external disruption occurs. A kind-hearted text from a friend is enough to send me spiraling because a text usually requires a reply, and then another, and then another. One task ticked off the to-do list is soon replaced by a new one. There’s always something or someone asking for care, time, and attention—and they often ask within an overlapping moment. It’s a cycle, and the cycle doesn’t seem to end. It might be an age-old metaphor, but I do feel I am a hamster on a spinning wheel lately.

Some moments, I wonder if it’s just me. Am I the only one who can’t handle this? Am I exceptionally sensitive to a fault? Am I alone in being unable to keep up with the pace of 24-hour news and hyper-connectivity? 

I really don’t think I am. I think we’re all hurting and grieving.

I think we’re all overwhelmed—at least on the inside—by what’s happening around us and being thrown at us on a daily basis.

This takes me back to the walk I mentioned. The walk that was different than the rest. I don’t remember if I had my phone on me, I probably left it in the car in a declaration of defiance, but if it was on my body, I didn’t pay it any mind. I didn’t pay a single thing that wasn’t directly before my senses any mind. I could feel the sun warming my face and my feet shuffling ahead. I could hear the jingle of Bucky’s tags clanking merrily. I could smell the dewy grass. And I could see the contrasting pace at which nature was operating.

Along the walk, I paused my movements to take in and notice things I would have missed otherwise. A red-winged blackbird perched on a fence—its inky wings highlighted by a bold red and bright yellow. A small rainbow trout lazily swimming in the murky waters of a pond. And me, existing not outside of it but within it. A part of it.

And when I matched the pace, I felt the waters inside of me shift and settle, as if the thrashing waves were now just lapping gently against the shore, knowing the pull of the moon would be there to guide them.

In the grand scheme of things, this blossoming of peace was quiet and small. It wasn’t flashy or glorious. It was a glimmer. A glimmer of hope, of calm, of guidance. It allowed me to reconnect to nature, and through nature, I came back to myself. Even just for a collection of minutes.

Now I’m not suggesting a glimmer can only stem from the great outdoors. Just as we are shaken by varying situations, topics, and environments, our glimmers exist on a spectrum as well. While I was graced by a deep peace, a glimmer expands beyond that. It can be something that ignites hope, fills us with gratitude, or allows us to feel the depth of true connection. So it might be the divine taste of the foam on your cappuccino, it might be the way a particular scene in a movie creates a belly laugh and leads to tears, and it might be the way creating a piece of art allows your brain to shut off and your soul to zone in. Ultimately, it’s yours to discover, define, and nurture.

The effects of my particular “glimmer” have lasted weeks, reminding me to pause. To slow my breathing. To spend my waking hours not running to or from any one thing. To notice a bird. To give my full attention to the task at hand. To be mesmerized by a silly fish. To just be. 

“We often forget that WE ARE NATURE. Nature is not something separate from us. So when we say that we have lost our connection to nature, we’ve lost our connection to ourselves.” ― Andy Goldsworthy

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