A Walk I’ve Taken a Thousand Times

We talk about living with intention often, and yet it can feel surprisingly hard to practice.

In the rhythm of everyday life, it is easy to move quickly from one thing to the next without fully noticing what is right in front of us.

Spring has a way of interrupting that rhythm.

In Michigan, it doesn’t arrive all at once. It begins quietly, almost tentatively, after a long winter. The days stretch a little longer, the air softens, and small signs begin to appear—buds on trees, the first tulips pushing through the ground, daffodils opening toward the sun. And then, almost suddenly, everything is green again.

It’s a shift that is easy to miss if we are not paying attention.

Yesterday, with a high of seventy-eight, my husband and I went out early to walk our usual two-mile loop with our dog, Bernie, trying to get ahead of the heat. It is a walk we do almost every day, a familiar route that rarely feels new.

But this time, it did.

There was a sense of joy and quiet amazement in noticing what had changed—the bright green of new leaves, the budding trees, the flowers beginning to open, and the warmth of the sun after months of cold.

Nothing about the walk itself was different, but the way we experienced it was.

We slowed down. We paid attention. We took it in with fresh eyes and a more open awareness of the moment we were in.

It was a simple reminder that living with intention is not always about making big changes or decisions. More often, it is about noticing. It is about allowing ourselves to pause, even briefly, and fully experience what is already here.

The day-to-day responsibilities do not disappear, and the pace of life does not suddenly slow on its own. But there is a choice, even in the middle of that movement, to be present to what is unfolding around us.

In my work, I often talk about the importance of planning and preparing for the future. But that preparation is not separate from how we live now. The practical work matters because it creates space for something even more important.

And that “something” is not reserved for the end of life.

It is available in moments like this.

A walk you’ve taken a thousand times.
A season you almost missed.
A quiet awareness that this, too, is part of living well.