I set out on my usual morning walk with stick in hand and feet in full shuffle mode. The Tennessee June clouds hang low and gray, darker in some spots. I’d checked the weather after waking up and saw there was a twenty-five percent chance of rain, so I was willing to take my chances. I like my morning walks. A lot.

Making my way down our low-traffic street, I pass the three mallards that always park their flippy duck-butts by the fence enclosing their pond. I feel a single raindrop hit my hand, but keep going.

I make my turn onto the street where I really do my walks. I’ve lived just an eighth of a mile from this road for over eleven years. I’ve walked it countless times, yet I can never remember its name. It’s a long and winding country road, roughly paved, and surrounded by fields and woods. At one point, tall trees line both sides of the road, forming a dark, shrouded stretch. The canopy arches like a vaulted ceiling — I think of it as the Cathedral of Trees. There’s always an abundance of birds, bugs, moss, weeds, and all sorts of quiet natural goings-on. I often stop on this part of my walk to just stand and absorb the quiet activity unfolding around me.

While soaking in the sounds and sights, a slight rumble of thunder rises and falls within my awareness. A flicker of panic follows. Then I smile. The dark gray clouds, the single raindrop that lands on my hand, and the little burp of thunder all suggest the sky might rip wide open and pour a torrent of thunderstorm down upon me. But I take my walking stick back up and continue forward, unaffected.

Not long ago, I would’ve responded differently. That flicker of panic would’ve been instantly fastened onto. I’d have high-stepped it home like the storm was out to obliterate me. The key thing is, I wouldn’t just feel the panic — I’d become it.

Not anymore. And not a moment too soon, I learned I don’t have to entangle myself with passing sensations, thoughts, or feelings. Not only is it unnecessary — it’s destructive. It shrinks your life.

I’ve learned to step back. Really step back. I can now see that I am simply the awareness of thunder rising and falling. It took me a long time to understand, but I’m also the awareness of the panic — its rise, its fall. Understanding that has changed me. I don’t even care now if it rains on me. I can’t control 99.999999% of what happens — the weather, illness, terrible people doing terrible things. It’s all outside my control. But I can override the old programming. I don’t have to grab every feeling like it’s a precious possession. Screw that.

So I keep walking, amazed by the litany of sensations passing through — holding onto none. It doesn’t matter if I remember them or not. Memory is a janky tool at best, anyway. There’ll be more sensation to be aware of, to let rise and fall, and to not latch onto.

Heading back home, I pass by the ducks again and stop to look at them. They regard me with slight interest, then wriggle their flippy duck-butts and waddle off to their pond. I waddle off too, as the moments, sensations, thoughts, and feelings rise and fall away — like thunder in Tennessee.

Both paintings featured with this essay are the work of the author, Bradly Wilson.