Small Steps on Crickley Hill

Comforting a critic on the Cotwsold Way

On Crickley Hill, it’s just me, a cow, and pelting rain. The drizzle from earlier, that soft shower that peppered my jacket and misted green trees, is now a stormy crush. The sheets pelt down, drenching my phone. A brief warning appears, and then the phone dies. I have two more miles to go.

Somehow, I’m not freaking out. I love the pounding rain chorus. My sunshine stroll has taken an adventurous turn. And what’s the point of a long-distance walk without a story of getting soaked to the bones?

I can assure you that 24 hours ago, my reaction would not have been calm. Or practical. A few days ago, I started this long-distance walk under exceptional conditions. Piercing blue sky, sunshine beaming warmth on my bare shoulders. Somehow, though, despite my anticipation, despite the overwhelming natural beauty around me, I felt tense. I’d assumed the moment I set foot on the grass and began to walk, that a purposeful calm would take over.

Of course, this was absurd. I had barely walked at all. I needed time on the path. Time to clear out my brain gunk. To pause and reflect. Over the past few months, I’d been dressing myself in responsibility. Layering “sure, I’ll do that,” on top of “I can make that work,” and slipping in “I’ll just squeeze in one more email,” into each day. Nothing out of the ordinary. An almost unnervingly normal responsibility load -- and thank goodness. I’ve had the opposite. Years chock-full of calamities. Now, though, somehow even the blessed mundanity of absorbing family and work demands made me feel like I was wearing a dozen peacoats and trying to tie them with a child’s belt.

“You’ll go on your walk,” I kept telling myself before the trip. “You’ll clear it all out, you’ll strip off all the stress, you’ll let it all go.”

To my dismay, as I broke out onto the green path, rather than feeling the stress alleviate, I spiraled into self-loathing. “Why can’t you relax?” my inner critic berated. (Because every mother knows how helpful it is to tell someone to relax). You wanted this trip. You paid for this. You planned it. If you can’t relax, that’s on you. What’s wrong?

Finally, as I set out on the third day, I begin to soften. I tell myself stories. I record voice memos. I let my mind wander. “This,” I think, “this is what I came here for.” I feel the weight begin to vaporize. I’m lighter. More clear. I’m so relaxed, I don’t notice I’ve wandered a mile off the trail.

My inner critic rockets back. What did you do? You have a terrible sense of direction. You’re not focusing. Of course, you got lost.

And then.

I stop.

I look at the trees. I take in their crisp, brown lines, like knobby pencils jutting into highlighter green leaves. The branches cascade around me. I take a deep breath. Warm, breezy air. I hear the leaves rustle and the frothy chirps of blackcaps and wrens.

“STOP.” This one I say out loud. “You are fine.” I continue walking. I gently whisper to myself. In the same voice I use when I pull my sons close, when they wobble, and I whisper into their ears, and say: “you’re doing a great job. You’re going to figure this out. Look at you! You’ve got this.”

I look up and grin at the tree canopy. “You planned all of this yourself. You’re finding your way. You’re ok, you’re ok, you’re ok.”

With each ok, I exhale. I repeat it, over and over, as my feet find the path. I mother myself back to the Cotwsold Way.

The next day, when the storm pounds and I’m truly alone on Crickley Hill, I’m ready. I’m relaxed. I walk through the storm. And I find my way back.

This post is a part of the blog tour for Small Steps: Blessings to Lift Your Soul on the Pilgrimage of Life. Small Steps by my wonderful friend, Kimberly Knowle-Zeller, is a book of blessings meant to meet us in our daily lives, in all of the challenges and joys, struggles and triumphs. A few of the blessings include: For a Rough Morning, Listening to a Dream, and For an Ordinary Tuesday. Order your copy on bookshop.org or wherever books are sold.