i haven’t written a haibun in a while.
I step into the weekend like a question. No itinerary. No certainty. Just the hush of morning and the feel of earth beneath my feet. I remember Antonio Machado’s words—“Traveler, there is no path. The path is made by walking.”
And something in me exhales.
There is a kind of freedom in not knowing. In releasing the grip of destination. I have spent too long searching for the right way forward, waiting for some sign to say, This is it. But the sign never came—only silence and the quiet rhythm of breath.
Now I walk not to arrive, but to listen.
With each step, the ground shapes itself beneath me. The unknown opens like a flower. And I begin to trust that what I seek is not beyond the horizon but within the motion itself.
nothing ahead—
only the whisper of steps
becoming a trail
