Every morning, Winston and I wander.
My feet are forward; his nose is down.
I call it walking, but it’s not.
It’s more like pausing, then pausing again.
He finds every crack a universe unfolding.
Every tree a novel yet unwritten.
Every breeze whispers secrets I can’t hear.
I tug the leash, eager for progress.
But he lingers, faithful to each moment.
And I wonder how often I miss them—
The sacred stops, the holy interruptions.
The places where God might be waiting.
I pull him forward, impatient to keep going.
He resists, patient to savor staying still.
Walking Winston is not about moving.
It is about learning to listen deeply.