Listening to Brené Brown and Walking in the Woods
Read more poetry by Britt Wolfe
Somewhere between a familiar voice
speaking gently about courage
and the hush of boots on damp earth,
something opens.
Not dramatically.
Not all at once.
Just enough
to let light back in.
There was a break—
yes.
A fracture so clean it almost convinced
the world it had ended something.
But breaks are not the opposite of living.
They are thresholds.
Out here, among the trees,
nothing is in a hurry to prove itself.
Nothing is ashamed of weathering.
Roots do not apologize
for growing around stone.
The air smells like patience.
Like time that isn’t measured
in losses or milestones,
but in rings,
in seasons,
in quiet persistence.
A voice in the ear speaks of vulnerability—
not as weakness,
but as the raw, necessary state
of being alive.
And the forest nods.
Because this is what it knows:
that standing tall requires exposure,
that reaching toward the light
means risking the storm.
Here, movement is a gift.
Breath is a privilege.
The body remembers
it was designed to carry us forward,
not to hold us hostage.
With every step,
wonderment returns—
not loud,
not demanding—
just present.
A leaf cupped in the palm.
Sunlight broken into gold
through branches older than memory.
If there is a place we come closest to God,
it is not in answers,
but in this vast, breathing continuity—
the eternity of trees,
the intelligence of soil,
the way everything belongs
without asking permission.
Nothing here is separate.
Nothing here is wasted.
And slowly,
without announcement,
healing takes its place
not as an achievement,
but as a companionship—
walking beside us,
listening,
teaching us again
how to marvel at being alive.
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