Tell me about the flowers

«Instructions for living a life: Pay attention. Be amazed. Tell it.»

– Maria Oliver

To tell you the truth, I don’t want to know how many miles you’ve walked today.

I don’t care what time you started walking this morning or if you were ahead of schedule.

What do I want to know?

Tell me about the flowers.

Tell me about the sight that made you stop walking.

Tell me about the stretch of trail that was like walking into a dream. Tell me about the hawk flying overhead, the smell of pine in the afternoon sun, or the stranger you shared a laugh with at a water fountain. Tell me about the moments that made you forget to check your mileage.

At some point along the way, even on a path as extraordinary as this one, it’s easy to become obsessed with progress.

We count miles.

We compare rhythm.

We talk about where we are camping, how far we have to go, whether we are behind or ahead.

Without realizing it, we begin to measure the experience by how efficiently we move North.

But I don’t think that’s why we’re here.

There is no medal waiting in Canada.

No trophy.

There is no audience keeping score.

One day, if we’re lucky, we’ll reach the far north. We’ll take a photo, celebrate, hug the people we’ve come to love along the way, and then we’ll go home.

And what will be left will not be a mileage spreadsheet.

They will be the moments.

The dawn that dyed the mountains gold.

The unexpected kindness of a stranger.

The wildflowers blooming in a place you never expected life to thrive.

The nights when the entire world seemed to slow down for a few minutes and allow you to simply exist within it.

Those are the things that matter.

Those are the things we will take home.

I believe that one of the greatest lessons that a long journey can teach us is that it is not necessary to conquer all experiences.

It is not necessary to optimize every moment.

Not every day has to be productive.

Sometimes the lesson is simply learning to be where you are.

Stop when the view is beautiful.

To rest when you are tired.

Offer you patience, grace and compassion.

Because what’s the point of walking to Canada if you never allow yourself to truly experience the road beneath your feet?

I hope to get to Canada. But more than that, I hope to notice the flowers.

I hope to remember the sights that made my soul come alive.

I hope to remember the people, the laughter, the stillness and the wonder.

And years from now, when someone asks me about this trail, I hope the first thing they remember isn’t how many miles I hiked.

But how extraordinary it felt to be there.

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