I miss that version of me...

Hey,

This is the first of a new series I’m calling Field Notes: short reflections from my life, drawn from teaching, making, observing, or just paying attention.
They’re not polished essays. More like pages from my personal journal.

Thanks for being here.

Adventure

This Wednesday, early in the morning, I set out on foot.
I didn’t really have a plan, just a quiet stretch of time and the thought of a croissant in the next town over.

I’m in southern France right now, on holiday, and something about the light, the stillness, the pull of the morning made it feel like the right kind of day to walk.
I left just after sunrise.

Along the way, I stopped here and there to take photos; nothing dramatic, just the road ahead, forest paths curving out of view, a mysterious gate, and an old tower hidden in the trees.

I posted them as if I were documenting an expedition, which I guess, in some way, I was.
My last post read: Kicked off my day with an adventure. Now it’s your turn.

I meant it playfully, but something in it stuck with me.
Because the truth is, I used to begin every day this way.

Habit

During summer last year, I started walking every morning, early, before the world stirred. 

Just 15 to 30 minutes, sometimes a bit longer. But I kept it up for months, which is highly unlike me. I don’t usually stick to routines. Especially not the quiet, slow ones. 

But that version of me felt different.
Lighter. Sharper. More awake. 

I’d rise before the sun, lace up my shoes, and head out. I tracked each walk in an app: route, pace, elevation. But really, I just wandered.
I tried new streets, veered off familiar paths. I got to know the cracks in the sidewalks, the early risers, the still-sleeping windows of my hometown. 

The air always felt cool, even in summer. 

Birds calling. Dew on the grass. The sky shifting from grey to something like fire. 

Then the houses: quiet gardens, parked cars, empty playgrounds. A man walking his dog. Curtains opening. A nod. A wave. The world slowly waking up, one soft motion at a time.

Drifting

I haven’t walked like that in a while.

Maybe it was the cold of winter. Or the rain that didn’t stop.
Maybe work crept in and started occupying the quiet hours again.
Or maybe, I don’t know, maybe I just let it slip.

To be honest, I hate that I let it go.
It was one of the few things that felt truly mine.
But that’s how it goes sometimes.
You skip a day, then another, and suddenly it’s not part of you anymore.

What the walks gave me wasn’t just movement or time outdoors.
It was space.
A kind of internal de-cluttering.
The chance to notice what I was carrying, and whether it still needed to be carried at all.

Without that pause, I get swept up again.
I start chasing tasks. Focusing on what needs to be done, and how quickly I can do it, instead of asking why I’m doing it in the first place.

Maybe those walks gave me just enough quiet for the deeper thoughts to rise.
Just enough stillness to notice them, to reach in and pluck them from the surface before the day rushed in.

Tomorrow, maybe I’ll try again.
Not because I should.
But because I miss that version of me.
The one who walks.

Until next time,
keep exploring,
keep experimenting,
keep teaching.

—Bram