On the day I had finally arranged to meet a friend, the scorching summer heat made me waver for a moment. "It’s so hot—should I just stay in?" I had been diligently tackling a backlog of tasks at my desk, yet there was still more to do. Wouldn't it be better to just stay put and finish today's work? Despite these thoughts, I found myself putting on my shoes before I knew it.
It’s not just that I rarely break plans; it seems my body wanted to get moving before my mind could object. As we set off, I casually suggested, "Let's turn off our phones and walk for just one hour." My friend readily agreed.
The summer mountain wasn't as hot as I’d expected. I had anticipated high humidity, but the air in the forest's shade was pleasantly moist, allowing us to breathe deeply. Having both just recovered from a nasty bout of the flu, we kept our conversation to a minimum; with our phones tucked away in our pockets, we simply walked steadily onward. What was it that we saw and shared during that time?
Strolling through the summer forest—deepened to a lush, vibrant green in the afternoon sunlight—felt like a true blessing. We didn't need a map for the familiar path, nor did we stop to take photos of the scenery; we simply walked on in quiet contemplation.
"It’s wonderful having a mountain like this right behind the house." "It really is."
"We’re enjoying this blessing for free, without having done a thing to earn it."
"Not really. I do work diligently when the moment demands it, but sometimes I wonder what it all means." "Yeah, I know the feeling. There are times I wonder what I’ve actually done with my life."
To have a friendship spanning over forty years—what a remarkable bond! We understand each other's worries so well that no explanation is ever needed. We walked along, taking turns leading the way, without any particularly special conversation, before eventually parting ways.
I had a lot of work to do, and my friend had to head home to prepare dinner. My friend, who had taken on the role of caregiver after her mother was injured in an accident, spoke of the sorrow of witnessing an aging body and the lessons learned through daily patience; meanwhile, I—having lost my father last winter—spoke of how that parting, which I had initially viewed solely as a loss, turned out to be neither a loss nor a true farewell.
On that walk—undertaken with the simple thought, "Let's meet for just one hour"—we received a gift of healing and comfort far greater than what an ordinary hour usually offers. My friend told me she had hesitated about coming out at all, but that the decision to meet for "just one hour" had saved her. She said she intended to share this mystery with her child, who was currently struggling with burnout.
Not long ago, on the Solemnity of Pentecost, my friend drew the gift of "Piety" (Reverence) from the Seven Gifts of the Holy Spirit, while I drew "Wisdom." As we parted, we shared the gifts we had received.
"Between caring for your parents and your volunteer work, 'Piety' is already your way of life—and yet you drew it again? Here, take mine."
"You’re always studying, reading, listening, and sharing wisdom—and you drew 'Wisdom' again? Want to swap? Though I suppose this one is actually quite challenging."
We returned home promising that whenever we felt exhausted in the future, we wouldn't hesitate to give ourselves that empty space—not just "let's meet for an hour," but even if we couldn't meet in person, simply "taking an hour for myself." This piece of writing is a gift born of that time.
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