By Sue Attar, shared by David Stewart
For over a year, I’ve been walking the same inner city pavements between Redfern Station and my office. Two days a week, fifteen minutes each way. Dah, de, dah, de, dah!
By now, you’d think I’d know every crack in the pavement, every tree leaning into the path, every doorway and discarded green bike along the way.
But I didn’t.
Most mornings, my head was somewhere else. Either on the phone, already in the day ahead, juggling meeting agendas and database scripts. In the evenings, I was hurrying home, counting the steps to the train, already thinking about dinner. My body was walking, but I wasn’t there.
I’ve long wanted to be one of those people who meditate, who seem grounded and serene, the kind who speak of life and living as if it were a calm state of being. I’ve taken courses, read the books, even sat with a Tibetan monk in Nepal once. Yet I always drifted back to the same old excuses:
“It’s too hard.”
“I can’t stop my thoughts.”
“I last two seconds before I’m thinking about something else.”
Patience has never been my strongest suit.
Then, a few weeks ago, I experienced a small shift. I couldn’t call a friend that morning because the phone battery was flat. Was this the universe intervening? The morning was impossibly beautiful, the kind of sky so blue it makes you feel lighter just looking at it. So, I listened to the greater silence and began to walk quietly.
That’s when I noticed the trees. Magnificent, generous things, their roots pushing up through the pavement like old wisdom surfacing. Their trunks twisted and proud, some deep red, some smooth white, all reaching upward with quiet purpose. I saw how their leaves played against the sky, different shades of green vibrating with sunlight. I even smiled at the flowers blooming around their bases, as if the Earth Goddess was decorating my shoes and feet. And let me tell you, I love my boots and shoes!
Then I saw the buildings, the terraces with their wrought-iron lacework and layered histories. Some freshly painted, some flaking at the edges but still beautiful, still standing. Each one with its own story, its own energy. I noticed the graffiti, the old date carved into a sandstone façade from 1896, the way parked cars seemed to breathe in and out between the trees.
By the time I arrived at work, I felt something I hadn’t felt for a long time. It was a sense of peace. Not the kind that comes from ticking everything off your list, but the kind that arises when you’ve been present for your own life.
And in that moment, I understood mindfulness. Not as something to study, but as something to remember.
I may never master meditation. My mind still runs ahead of me often. But that morning, I realised that awareness isn’t something you achieve, it’s something you allow. It’s waiting, right there in the trees on your street, if you just stop long enough to see them.
