I spent the past weekend at the Centre de Vie in Ripon, QC at a yoga retreat led by Andrea from Body and Balance. While there, we went for a walk on the large farm property. Andrea encouraged us to walk in silence, and then to journal about what we noticed. Here’s what I pondered as I walked on a November day in Canada.

Don’t ever believe that your life is aimless. Look for signs to point you on your way. You will find them. When you see them you will worry, because you don’t know where the sign is pointing to or what lies ahead. All you might see are obstacles and uphill climbs. Keep walking anyway.

The mosses and and puffballs that aid with decomposition, and the brown composting leaves might lead you think of death and dying, but they are preparation for rebirth. The time of “wintering” is a necessary dormancy that will recharge you, and evolve you, and take you to the next stage of your life.

After you have skirted or surmounted obstacles, and after you have climbed the hills, you will descend. You think this is going to be the easy part. But going down is just as challenging as climbing up. You must take care on sharp drops and slippery slopes.

Soon you may realize that you have circled back to the crossroads where you started, but you aren’t the same person you were the last time you were there. You are stronger for having climbed, you are more experienced for having learned, you are more confident and prepared to take on other challenges. You climbed, you navigated, you descended, and it was good.

Then you wander past an old piece of farm machinery, and it sparks memories of a childhood on a farm, a time and place that was both carefree and fraught with uncertainty. You’ll recall your hands in dirt and romps in fields of crops grown to feed the family. You’ll reminisce about the times that crops grew for months, tall and healthy in the sunshine, only to be struck down minutes by a violent storm. Income lost in an afternoon. You’ll remember pet calves, cherished and bottle-fed that became ill and died from disease. It was more than the tragic loss of loved animals. It was an economic blow. But your family grew other food, so you didn’t go hungry, you lived in an old farmhouse, so you were never out in the cold, and you had family.

As you walk silently back to a different farmhouse in a different time, you’ll recall that money isn’t what’s most important. Food, shelter and community are all that really matters.