The Curl of a Leaf

The Curl of a Leaf

My favorite walking meditation takes place in a historic community just a few bounds away from my midtown apartment. The kind of neighborhood where roads roll quietly over humble hills and snake around elegant dollhouse homes. Something about this wide, winding pavement and dainty nook of homes grounds me, lets me come home – I crave the grounding of Magnolia and Oak tree roots, solidity of the stone-encrusted brick, and hope of the century-old address posts stuck haphazardly in thick green lawns.

After double-knotting my shoes, tuning into soulful rock, and securing my earphones, I find a hill to climb to stretch my legs and feel my pipes warm with steady whiffs of air. It’s not long before my sunglasses slide off my face, sweat dangles on my nose, and I’m going too fast. I need to stretch my hip flexors and calves, ground myself. I need to stop and pay attention to the emerald green curl of the magnolia leaf. Just a leaf, but what presence and girth and aliveness, such a staunch yet relaxed sense of self.

As I stop to stretch and gaze at more surroundings, what safety comes from standing underneath a crowd of oak trees. Like a bunch of old souls saying, “be, just be, you’re okay.” Then, as I stand straight and end my private pep talk among the oaks, I lift my chest, hold my head high and start tick-tocking down the sidewalk again. Tick, tock, squish, stomp, pat, pat, pat….

But, wait, no more smooth sidewalk. Tree roots take over my path but more like a dinosaur has just crunched over the cement leaving crumbles of once-hexagonal stepping stones. More roots. More cracks. I wonder what little worlds live between the roots and beneath the pavement. Maybe little chipmunk hideouts, maybe magical kingdoms for bugs and worms. I waiver and balance myself over the threatening shapes jutting up in the air, daring me to look up and away. I sort of like the challenge, the swaying. Then, I pause.

Stop going so fast. Check out the original glass in the oversized front window – puddles of color etched in the glass sway together like curvy bodies grooving. Move an inch, and new shapes form nearly blinding your view of the foyer. You see a mirror though, a long hallway, the rest is left to your imagination. Did a gardener arrange the geraniums spilling over the terra cotta pots, or did the man just cruising in on his road bike? Maybe the banker got his hands dirty, or maybe the woman with her little white dog?

Moving on again. Smooth sidewalks ahead. This time, I keep my head raised high, and I slow down. There’s a certain healing to slowing down, a magic in stillness. Kind of like the first time you learn about stretching, meditation and yoga – maybe thinking it’s for people who are naturally laid back, who are naturally still. For people who can’t run marathons or turn cartwheels in step class. Then, the marathon runners hear yoga helps breathing and concentration, and the step maniacs try purple mats for a day instead of purple risers – both experiencing a miracle.

They still walk away from their workouts floating on a cloud, it’s just a different kind. Maybe instead of a choppy cumulus, a free-flowing cirrus hovers over them like a blanket of “okay” protection. Think presence in lieu of competition: The runners learn it’s not all about beating the clock but more about appreciating their toes for gentle balance, heels for plunging forward, quadriceps for power, hips for stabilization, shoulders for confidence, and eyes for absorbing the ride. The step enthusiasts slow down enough to pay attention to the placement of the heel on the step, the chance to let out the inner dance child, the awareness of moving for feelings not for exhaustion, and the lightness of floating through class with the surrounding buzz of people.

Again, there’s a certain healing to slowing down, a safety in roots, a magical healing in the details. What’s the rush for anyway? Be thankful for the crumbles in the sidewalk; you slow down to embrace the smell of honeysuckle, and the little critters in the cracks below take comfort in the protection of their own little cities. Be thankful for the Saturday road race that makes you take the detour – you discover a new path, and the runners might just be enjoying the experience of running unabashedly through the city, no pressure for once, just presence.

These simple things – the curl of a leaf, a crumbled sidewalk, sweat dripping, freshly planted flowers – contain an “okayness”, a security of the innocence yet strength of nature. Forget the constant drama – the winner, the loser, the phone call, the red lights, the conforming, the competition – because they’re little trinkets, little ornaments that slightly define you, your life, your being. The real stuff doesn’t have to be so hard, so taxing, so nail-biting. Trust where you are right now in your natural-already-okay-good-enough self. Pay attention. Be grounded in the root of your self.

Caroline Correll’s vision is for people to respect body wisdom and uniqueness. She encourages presence and the “listen to your body” approach toward herself and others in fitness classes throughout Atlanta.