A Winter Walk + Global Prayer

This past weekend, I thoroughly enjoyed hiking in the woods.

The air was crisp and fresh. It was cold — the kind of cold that wakes your senses — but I was bundled up, and the sun was shining so brightly it felt like a blessing on my face.

I went for a solo walk in Medway Forest. For the entire time, I saw only one human in the distance.

It was just me and the trees.

Just me and the snow. Just me and the silence.

And yet… I didn’t feel alone.

I felt embraced.

There is something about winter woods that holds you differently. The leaves are gone. The usual noise is softened. It feels sacred. Still. Quiet.

As I walked, I could hear the gentle squish of my boots pressing into the snow. That rhythmic sound became my anchor. Step. Squish. Step. Squish.

Presence.

There was nowhere else to be.

The stillness around me began to permeate within me. My mind softened. Thoughts slowed. The usual mental chatter — planning, remembering, replaying — simply faded into the background. What remained was clarity.

It was so peaceful and fulfilling to simply be in the moment.

We often think peace is something we have to create or chase. But in that forest, peace was already there. It was in the sunlight filtering through bare branches. It was in the frozen ground. It was in the quiet spaces between sounds.

All I had to do was slow down enough to notice.

As I walked, I found myself thinking of the Buddhist monks walking across the United States to raise awareness of peace and loving-kindness. They are walking in peace, as peace, and their presence is touching people everywhere.

And so I began to walk with that intention.

Each step became deliberate. A prayer. A practice.

If they can walk across a country in peace, could I not walk through this forest in peace?

Step by step, I focused on walking gently, walking consciously, walking as if each footprint mattered. Nothing else felt important in that moment. Not emails. Not plans. Not yesterday. Not tomorrow.

Just this step.

What a gift.

On Sunday, I walked again — this time with my friend Seva at Cain’s Woods. Another brilliant winter day. We walked along the river. It was refreshing to see the flowing river against a backdrop of stillness. The sunlight danced on the water, scattering sparkles across its surface.

And then I saw — a gaggle of geese resting together on a piece of snow-covered ice in the middle of the river, their heads tucked into their feathers to stay warm and cozy. 

They were completely still. It felt like winter itself speaking. It was so peaceful and calming.

Winter is not a season of inactivity — it is a season of inwardness. Beneath the frozen ground, life is preparing. Roots are deepening. Seeds are resting before their next becoming.

From the outside, it can appear that nothing is happening.

And yet, so much is happening.

Isn’t that true for us as well?

In silence, in stillness, in moments that look unproductive — something sacred is unfolding. Healing. Integration. Quiet growth.

We live in a world that celebrates constant movement, constant output. But winter reminds us of the power of pause.

The wisdom of slowing down. The nourishment of presence.

Both walks felt so nourishing and refreshing — not because of anything dramatic that happened, but because I was present.

In the quiet, I remembered who I am.

The Buddhist monks will reach their destination this week and will offer a global loving-kindness meditation on Facebook Live from 4:30–7:30 pm EST on Wednesday, the 11th. Their page is Walk for Peace.  What a beautiful way to honor their journey—and perhaps begin our own inward one.  I will be there, and hope you can join too!

Peace doesn’t have to be loud.

Sometimes it is simply one conscious step in the snow.

As we move through this winter season, where in your life are you being invited to slow down, soften, and simply be present?

What would change if you trusted that even in stillness, something sacred is unfolding within you?

May we walk gently on this earth.
May we move through our days with presence.
May we trust the wisdom of stillness.


 With love,
 Diane