A Walk
Hey. Glad you want to get to know me. Come, let's walk through the pine forest that leads down to the lake. Autumn is here. The birch leaves are turning. You breathe in — your lungs open wide, like a menthol drop. Damp earth. Pine resin. You in?
Wooden benches line the shore, scattered between the trees. We walk. After a few steps you say: "I found your website, Dirk. It feels welcoming. How does that happen? What makes you tick?" A few more steps. I look at the path ahead. "How does that happen?" I take a breath. "I watch what shows up. I build something, then I check if it's right. I trust the flow."
I glance around as if the answer might be standing in the trees. "When I know you want to meet me, I prepare. Who are you, what do you need, what matters to you? I do that in both worlds — digital and face to face. I like it when you feel at ease. When an encounter lands. And it lands for me when you sense it — everything fits. The quiet details. The small tones."
"I'd say that's what drives me: I make encounters good — with tea, bread, atmosphere, the way I dress, the way I show up. And when the moment stays with both of us — before and after — that touches me." You look at the path ahead. Nod. "Flow — I know that," you say. "When I'm deep in something and time and space dissolve. What helps you find it — or stay in it?"
My head tilts. Eyebrows up. Didn't expect that one. "Flow starts as an impulse. A pull. A turning in the solar plexus. A sentence that arrives. An image. The sea, for instance. Do I go, or don't I? Who decides — the head? The gut? The nameless thing? There's an inner scanner. A compass. Where's the needle? Where does the magnet pull? Am I on course?"
"When it's right, something opens. Width. I let myself fall into it. Follow the pull. Outside — to the sea, the forest, a lake. Into a book, a scent, a building, toward people. Or into silence. Two things attract: plus and minus. Life pulls — I am pulled. What watches that, I call intuition. Intuition knows what pulls. When I drift off track, I feel it. The needle trembles. It tips. When that happens, I change direction. Immediately. No matter the cost."
—
"Intuition — I know that," you say. The words drop like a stone in the lake. "A hunch. A knowing. I feel it when it's true." I stop walking for a second. "We all know it. It's nature."
—
We step out of the last stretch of forest. The path opens. The lake lies flat before us. Leaves drift on the surface. Ahead, the bench I had in mind. Cracked planks, deep grooves from years of weather. Someone carved a heart with an arrow into the wood. Who sat here, and when? "Sit for a moment?" — "Sure." Something in you settles.
I set down my backpack. Open it. Wait a second. "Surprise." Two enamel cups clink against each other. Then the thermos. Ginger and lemon hit the air before the tea does. You watch my hands. I unwrap the bread. Sourdough from the village bakery. Thick slices, butter, cream cheese, chives. I hand you a piece. You hold it. Bite in. The crust cracks — short, dry.
Eyes closed. A nod. A smile. "That's really good." You look at me. "You like good things?" Statement, not question. I smile. "Like this. Not much on it — but every part right. Good bread, clean cut, clear taste. Things that hold and don't pretend."
—
We sit and watch the water. My belly rises and falls. The bread lingers. "That's one of the things that keeps me clear," I say. "Spaces that are light. Places where you can breathe. People who mirror me and remind me." You sip the tea. We look at the lake. The silence sits between us. Neither of us moves it.
"Keep going?" — "Yes." We stand. The path follows the shore, light falling through the pines. A few steps without words. "I'm enjoying this," you say. "Walking here. Without having to do anything. Without having to understand anything." I nod. The forest grows denser. The sounds shift. A bird lifts from the undergrowth. We walk on. And that's enough.
—
Thanks for walking with me. If you want to know more — write to me.