Part of my morning ritual walk, which is undertaken partly for exercise, partly as a kind of moving meditation practice, is to navigate this stretch of several hundred feet of shoreline adjacent to the local river.
Because of its position, slightly downstream of the point where two branches of the river meet, tree trunks washed down during storms are inclined to beach upon the boulder field. I’ve made a bit of a practice of rearranging those logs; hauling them out of the water, levering them into place, wedging them between stones. In so doing, I create my own ritual obstacle course, a place to enact certain skills of meaningful living, while I still can.
Walking the boulders is something akin to rock climbing, an exercise in improvisation; step high, pivot, step low, short step, long step, pause to calculate, sideways lunge. Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. Step lightly in the knowing that the stones may tip and rock unexpectedly. Some of the logs are broad and sturdy, and others are decidedly not so. Walk them all, forwards, backwards. Sometimes close your eyes. You may fall, and then the task is to manage the fall as well as you can; sometimes jumping and trusting fate (and skill) is the safest alternative.
Breathe in and out, deeply.