with each step, and how out of this unfolding
momentary potential, the foot ultimately commits to
one way, executes with full weight on it (or less if it's
a hazardous situation), and then lets go as the next
foot makes its choice and I move forward. All this
occurs virtually without thinking, except at the
occasional tricky spots where thought and experience
do come into play and I might have to give my
youngest child, Serena, a hand. But that is the
exception, not the rule. Ordinarily we are not looking
at our feet and thinking about each step. We are
looking out, ahead on the trail, and our brain, taking it
all in, makes split-second decisions for us that put the
foot down in a way that conforms to the needs of the
terrain underfoot in that moment.
This doesn't mean that there is no wrong way to step.
You do have to be careful and sense your footing. It's
just that the eyes and the brain are very good at rapid
assessment of terrain and giving detailed directions
to torso, limbs, and feet, so that the whole process of
taking a step on rough ground is one of exquisite
balance in motion, even with the complication of
boots and heavy packs. There is built-in mindfulness
here. Rough terrain brings it out in us. And if we do a
trail ten times, we'll each solve the problem of each
footstep differently each time. Covering ground on
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