It was a soaked morning in Snowdonia—mist clung to every branch, rain drummed the cottage roof like distant thunder—and still, my friend and I set out before first light. We slipped into sodden jackets, boots gurgling with cold water, and followed a trail that vanished into gray nothingness.
As we climbed, the world narrowed to rhythm: boot on stone, breath in, breath out. Every tendon and sinew in my legs and back argued with fatigue, yet carried on, whispering: one more step. My lungs burned with chilled air; my heart pounded in an ancient drumbeat; my skin prickled with purpose.
Near the summit, the clouds thinned for a breath. Gold light spilled over jagged fells, igniting droplets on bracken and rock. My friend whooped—an unrefined cry of delight—and I felt tears mingle with the rain on my cheeks. My body, that familiar vessel of scars and strength, had guided me through mud and gale and doubt to this unguarded wonder.
Descending, each foothold demanded attention: loose scree, hidden roots, moss-slick stones. My muscles remembered every uphill battle, every tremor of exertion. I pressed a palm to an ancient oak’s damp trunk, feeling sap pulse beneath the bark—nature’s mirror to my own living frame.
At the cottage, I shed drenched layers until only my skin remained—each droplet a testament to the morning’s journey. I stepped into the shower’s embrace, hot water cascading like absolution. Steam curled around me, and every ache sighed into warmth. I pressed my back to cool tile, closed my eyes, and whispered:
“Thank you.”
Because this body—my oldest and most enduring possession—has carried me through storms and summits, through doubt and delight, and still wakes each day ready for the next path.
Wabi-Sabi Lessons from the Body’s Journey
- Imperfection is proof of life: Every ache and scar tells a story.
- Strength grows through surrender: Yield to discomfort, and you discover resilience.
- Presence over perfection: The summit’s beauty isn’t in conquest but in mindful steps.
- Rhythm is its own wisdom: Boot on stone, breath in, breath out—find your flow.
- Gratitude is the final warmth: Even the hottest shower is richer when you’ve earned it.
からから道
心の奥まで
あせをかく
dusty summer path
sweat trickles into the soul
quiet endurance
—
We started early, not because we were prepared, but because the sun hadn’t yet decided to punish us. I met Leo at the edge of the old city, both of us squinting through sleep and sunscreen, bikes already sticky from the day before. The idea was vague: ride as far into the Berner Oberland as we could before one of us gave up or the weather made the decision for us.
We didn’t talk much at the start. The hum of the tires on the asphalt was enough conversation. Past small villages, through patches of forest that offered momentary mercy, then into open fields that shimmered like heat was something you could see.
By midday, the silence between us was no longer comfortable — it was just all we had energy for.
“You think we’re lost?” Leo finally asked, not really caring.
I looked around. Everything was green, but aggressively so. Wildflowers like spilled paint. Cows that didn’t even lift their heads as we passed. A wooden sign pointed vaguely toward something that sounded Swiss enough to trust. I shrugged.
“We’re somewhere,” I said. “That counts.”
—
The climb started around two. The kind of incline that didn’t look bad until you tried pedaling up it and realized your body had been lying to you all morning. Sweat started in earnest. Dripped into my eyes. Into my thoughts.
And somewhere in that struggle — in the burning of thighs and lungs and sunburned shoulders — I remembered something I hadn’t thought about in years.
A conversation I had with my mother after my first heartbreak.
“You’ll get through it,” she’d said. “You always do.”
“How do you know?”
She paused. “Because that’s who you are.”
—
That’s the thing about the soul. It remembers who you are when your mind is too tired and your body’s too sore to pretend anymore. It’s the part of you that doesn’t care about the climb, the destination, the Instagram photo.
It just… endures.
It stays. Quietly. Even when everything else wants to quit.
—
We finally reached a plateau — not the top, but enough to breathe. Enough to collapse into grass that felt like cold water for the spine. Leo lay flat on his back, eyes closed.
“You ever think about how long we’ve been riding?” he said.
“Too long.”
“No, I mean… not just today.”
I looked at him. He wasn’t talking about bikes anymore.
“Yeah,” I said. “I think about it all the time.”
—
Later, we found a small alpine hut that served coffee. The kind of place with handwritten prices and flies that couldn’t be bothered. We sat on a bench. Shared a lukewarm espresso. Watched a cloud drift so slowly across the face of the Eiger it felt like it might never arrive.
And I thought: This is the soul, too.
Not just the part that survives.
But the part that learns to sit still.
To notice.
To receive the day without needing to improve it.
—
Notes from a Quiet Soul on a Hot Day
- The soul doesn’t rush. It endures.
- Some climbs aren’t for views — they’re for remembering who you are.
- Pain can clean out the noise. Make room.
- Endurance is sacred.
- The road doesn’t always tell you why. Sometimes the soul answers later.
—
We rode back slower. Not because the terrain changed. But because we had.
We didn’t speak much.
We didn’t need to.
The wind had picked up, and for a few blessed kilometers, it was at our backs.
And somewhere inside me, beneath the burn and the bruises of the day, I felt something old and quiet still holding the handlebars.
Still guiding me home.
life 