top of page

Messages are constantly beckoning to us as we walk along our life path, begging us to gather them up and heed their call, to follow our intuition, pull them into our awareness, and partake of their lesson.


One summer morning, I set out upon my daily walk. Along my way down Green Street, I noticed a nice bit of rock on the sidewalk. I picked it up, held it in my hand. Looks like shale. Good specimen. On impulse, I slipped the rock into the right front pocket of my frayed-at-the-hem jumper, then continued on my way.

A few steps later, I spotted a black feather. I stooped to pick it up. Very nice.  I placed it in my left front pocket where it would brush up against my cell phone and not be battered by the rock tumbling around in the opposite pocket.

Continuing on, I saw a “wish”—a milkweed seed—caught in a spider’s web spun up against a sapling. Desiring to free the wish, I swiped my right arm through the web. And as I walked away, I realized the sticky silk was clinging to me and I was towing the wish along behind me. As I began slowly waving my arm, hoping to encourage the fluffy seed’s relaunching, I felt as if I’d sprouted an angel’s wing. The feeling fled when moments later the wish found its freedom and floated away.

At the top of the hill, in the edge of a field where a majestic oak resided, the sparkle of green glass caught my eye. Broken beer bottle? No matter. It seemed to be another messenger for me. I placed the shard in my right pocket along with the rock.

Nearing my neighborhood, a four-inch piece of bark called out to me. Holding the bark in one hand, I stopped to empty out my pockets and place my messengers--the shale, the feather, and the green glass—in the valley between its curling sides.

As I continued on, I imagined taking a picture of my gatherings  

and journaling about their message, their meaning, the reason

they crossed my path, caught my eye.

The rock. Solid. What I stand on. My strength. My grounding. My faith.

The feather, which I’d almost lost through a hole in my pocket, like my worries. Light. No real depth. Able to fly away if only I’d let them, not give them so much weight in my life.

The glass. My perspective, how I see things, people, situations, events in my life. Do I view them as trash or treasure? Things broken or beautiful?

The bark. My ark of my treasurers. My home. My mind. My heart. The place where all the things I hold dear are cradled in safety.

And the wish I once tethered? My imagination likened it to the myriad of ideas that stream into my mind. They are entertained for a moment or two. But if they do not spark the spirit within, I release them, knowing they will continue on until they tug at someone else’s mental awareness, a more proper place in which they may take seed, root, and grow to fruition.

These are the messages that came to me that day from the things I’d gathered.

What treasurers lie in your path? Consider taking a walk, gathering up what speaks to your spirit, and then taking a snapshot of the items you’ve brought home. Paste the photo in your notebook. Then journal about the gatherings you’ve found. What messages are they speaking into your life? What revelations await you as you walk along your path?

bottom of page