Walking Mountains

Image by Stephanie Albert

I was in a conversation about grief with someone walking beside a field of cows. I spoke to what cows reflect to me in that moment as walking mountains—solid in presence, peaceful in a way that feels deeply grounding. A steady presence that opens a doorway to peace in a way not many more-than-human beings do. The image arrived unexpectedly; this articulation had not surfaced before. Yet it brings both giddiness and calm at once. A reminder that that humans have the capacity to hold seemingly opposing emotions in the same space.

May carries a similar feeling. There is the giddiness of life bursting open—sun, warmth, and rain coaxing everything into growth. Alongside that is a quiet invitation from the earth: “touch me.” Shoes and socks come off. Bare feet meet soil. Hands move into the dirt, tending small gardens.

In these moments, the energy of those walking mountains is being embodied. Grounding deepens. Listening opens. Response becomes more attuned to the earth. There is nourishment received, and in reciprocity, nourishment offered—through tending, awe, and gratitude.

How can you embody the energy of the cows?

What does it mean to become a walking mountain?

Wander:Becoming a Walking Mountain

Step outside, or go to a place where the body can feel the presence of earth—soil, grass, stone, even the quiet weight of ground beneath a floor.

Begin by standing still.
Feet planted. Knees soft. Spine rising.
Let attention drop downward.
Feel the soles of the feet making contact.
Notice where weight gathers, where it shifts.
Without forcing anything, allow the body to settle a little more into gravity.

Imagine the feet widening.
Not physically, but energetically—spreading, rooting, touching more of the ground.

Breath moves in. Breath moves out.
With each exhale, allow weight to pour downward.
With each inhale, feel a subtle lift through the spine—length without tension.

Now invite the image: walking mountain. Not rigid. Not fixed. A mountain that breathes. A mountain that moves slowly through the world. Sense the steadiness of that.
The quiet presence.
The kind of stillness that does not need to prove anything.

Begin to walk, slowly.
Let each step be deliberate. Heel, sole, toes.
Feel the ground receive each foot.
Feel the body carried forward without rush.
Notice what happens in the chest. In the jaw. In the space behind the eyes.

If giddiness arises, let it be there. If peace arises, let it be there. If something else arrives, make room for that too.

Keep walking as a mountain would— unhurried, rooted even in movement, part of the earth rather than separate from it.

Pause at some point. Place a hand on the body—heart, belly, or wherever there is a call.

Acknowledge the exchange: support received, presence offered.

Before closing, ask quietly: What does the ground know that can be remembered?

Listen, without needing an answer in words.

When ready, return— carrying a trace of that steadiness, that quiet, grounded aliveness.