Murph’s Musings

A Mystic’s Journey

Finding my way in a small town

Oscoda Pocket Park ~ Photo by Author

Night still held the world in its silent embrace when I woke, later than usual — 3:30 a.m. for the second day in a row.

A deep, insistent ache pulsed through my body, a language of sensation speaking of muscles awakening from their long dormancy. The back of my right leg throbbed, a lingering echo of my own determination, the rhythmic two-minute jogs on the treadmill pulling me into a new rhythm of embodiment.

The gym was a glass enclosure, fluorescent-lit and exposed, a liminal space where movement met observation. Strangers passed by, their eyes drifting over the scene as they moved through their own mornings, their own silent rituals.

Once, I would have shrunk under such scrutiny, the weight of unseen judgment pressing against my skin. That belonged to another version of me, one that lived on a different timeline, in a different reality. That self had unraveled the moment I stepped onto this path.

Six months ago, I arrived in this small Michigan town knowing no one, a traveler crossing an invisible threshold. The silence was vast at first, stretching out around me like untouched snow.

I moved through it carefully, feeling my way forward, aware that I was a stranger in every way…