The next morning, Sunday unfolded gently, like a soft exhale after a long breath held too tightly. The healing woman stood in her small kitchen, tea steaming quietly in her hands, while sunlight slipped through the blinds and onto the hardwood floor. Her legs were still a little sore from the crouches and contortions of yesterday’s photography adventure in the wetlands, but the discomfort was welcome. It was the kind that reminded her she had spent her time doing something meaningful. Something for herself.

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She had planned to rest, maybe edit a few of her photos, but as her son emerged from his room—stretching, hoodie already half-zipped, a familiar calm in his expression—she felt something shift. She wanted to return to the trail. Not alone this time. She wanted to walk it with him. Not to capture anything. Just to experience it together.

When she asked if he wanted to join her, he nodded without hesitation. “Yeah,” he said. “Same place?”

She smiled and poured the rest of her tea into the sink.

They set out midmorning, arriving at the preserve beneath a sky brushed with soft clouds, the kind that filtered the sun just enough to keep the heat gentle. The gravel crunched beneath their boots as they stepped onto the trail, and the faint sound of birdcalls filtered down through the treetops in the distance. The healing woman adjusted the strap of her camera, though she didn’t intend to use it today unless something insisted on being remembered.

Their path began, as it often did, through the marshlands. The wooden planks stretched above shallow waters, and the air was thick with life. Cattails stood tall in shaggy brown spires, their downy tops just beginning to loosen into the breeze. Beneath them, water grasses waved softly in the currents, and the occasional arrowhead plant jutted above the surface with its delicate white blossoms.

Dragonflies darted around them, a mix of blues and greens shimmering like tiny airborne jewels. Her son pointed out one of the red dragonflies she had mentioned on earlier trips, resting briefly on the edge of the railing before vanishing into sunlight. Near the shallows, they watched a pair of painted turtles slide from their perch on a half-submerged log, their splash sending concentric ripples through clusters of duckweed.

Above, a marsh wren flitted from reed to reed, its song sharp and trilling, nearly lost in the chorus of frogs croaking nearby. The woman slowed her pace to absorb it all—not to name or photograph every species, but simply to notice. A breeze carried the scent of mud and new growth, and as it passed through, the reeds rustled in waves, as if the marsh itself breathed in rhythm with the world.

The wooden trail gave way to firmer ground as they entered the woods, and the light dimmed beneath a canopy of sugar maples, hemlocks, and white pine. The temperature dropped slightly, and the undergrowth changed from waving grasses to soft mosses and ferns, their fronds curled and reaching. Mushrooms in every shade of cream, tan, and rust-colored orange clung to fallen logs and the bases of trees, while tiny, ground-hugging wildflowers peeked from the base of ferns—some purple, others pale yellow, barely the size of a fingernail.

The forest was quieter than the marsh, but not still. Chickadees hopped through the branches, and far overhead, a pileated woodpecker called out, its laugh echoing through the trunks. Her son spotted a garter snake sunning itself on a patch of stone, completely motionless save for the flick of its tongue. When they passed, it slid away without urgency into the dense ferns.

Occasionally, they paused to observe a cluster of lady's slipper orchids tucked shyly beside a birch, or to watch a gray squirrel dart across the trail with a mouthful of moss. The trail meandered gently through the woods, the footing soft beneath a carpet of pine needles and last year’s leaves, until they began to hear the unmistakable hush and lap of water ahead.

The trees opened into a clearing, and there lay the lake, wide and still, reflecting the pale blue of the sky. Mallards floated nearby, males with their iridescent green heads and females in dappled brown, preening quietly. A pair of Canada geese stood on the shore, silent but alert, and a group of ducklings trailed after their mother in uneven, determined rows.

Along the far side, where the water shallowed into thick grasses and fallen branches, dozens of turtles rested on logs. Some were old and wide, their shells dark and worn. Others were young, clustered together in small piles of sunbathing calm. Her son moved quietly near the bank, pointing at a bullfrog so large it barely seemed real, its throat pulsing slowly with the rhythm of its breath.

Near a patch of sun-warmed stone, a fallen tree dipped into the water, its exposed roots forming a miniature cove. In the tangle of branches, they watched a heron step delicately, one leg at a time, before striking with sudden precision into the water. It emerged with a small fish, lifted its head, and swallowed with ease.

The healing woman sat for a while on a rock near the shore, watching it all without the need to document anything. Her camera remained at her side. She felt no urgency to preserve what was happening—this time, it was enough to be part of it.

When they finally rose and made their way toward the meadow, the light had shifted again, casting long rays through the trees behind them. The trail opened into that familiar sea of grasses and wildflowers, golden and humming with bees. Today, the goldenrod dominated, bright and rich against the backdrop of fading Queen Anne’s lace and the bold, defiant blooms of ironweed. Clusters of milkweed nodded in the breeze, their sweet scent still drawing monarchs to their pink blossoms.

They walked quietly to the edge of the field and sat beneath the old oak once more. Her son stretched out with arms behind his head, shoes off, one leg draped over the other. She remained sitting, back pressed to the tree, watching a pair of swallowtail butterflies spiral upward into the sky.

They spoke only a few words—about the heron, about the snapping turtle, about how much cooler it had gotten since they started their walk. But the real conversation happened in their shared silences: the kind that said, this is what it means to be home in the world together.

They stayed like that until the light grew soft and golden. The meadow, the marsh, the woods, and the lake had all given them something different—movement, quiet, reflection, and wonder. The healing woman had come seeking peace, and she found it not only in nature but in the rhythm of walking beside someone who knew her without asking for explanation.

By the time they turned back toward the trail, her body was tired but light, her breath steady. She didn’t feel worn down. She felt woven in—to her son, to the season, to the land.

And that, she realized, was the kind of stillness she hadn’t known she needed.

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