How often do we allow ourselves to just ramble?

Ramble. I’m looking at the dictionary, it means to walk for pleasure in the countryside. Or to talk at length in a confused, inconsequential way. Or in the case of plants for them to send out long shoots in all directions and take over the place.

For me, all three definitions makes me think of aimlessly wandering with no direction or objective or task in mind. Just moving, and taking joy in that simple pleasure.

As I notice the slow and subtle changes in the seasons, as the dregs of summer linger and yet the nights are drawing in with a chill, I take the time to get outdoors and ramble. Yes in nature if I can get it, through a park, forest or along the shoreline. Or just around my suburban streets, as there are still plenty gardens in bloom.

Wandering without clock watching, or rushing from one place to other, is a luxury I’m in no hurry to give up or compromise on because it always lifts my spirits, reminds me I’m alive and what a beautiful gift life is.

Adrift in the wonderness, adrift in that carefree feeling and breathing of a ramble is so much more bountiful at this time of year, my favourite time of year, autumn. Blink and I’m afraid I could miss the glorious display of colours; golds, oranges and reds, and textures; those damp silky mushrooms, to the slinky, slick wet leaves.

I tell a lie. Plants don’t ramble without a purpose. That’s me projecting. When a plant shoots out roots, shoots and branches anywhere and everywhere, it’s not the case of anywhere and everywhere, because they are seeking out light. They are bramble rambling into space and light. They are on a mission. And this I salute. Because when I ramble I’m seeking that same lightness. In spirit, in mood, in physicality. I want to be the light. I want to be light.