I walk along the wall, running my fingertips over the rocky surface. It’s cool with thin, moist green moss spindling along its edges. Lichen under shadowy surfaces, like thin gray paper with fringy edges. Above, in the tree’s canopy, song sparrows flit among the branches and warble.

I arrived at the wall on Thursday. I didn’t quite bang into it or splat against it. But I definitely came up against it and felt its weight as it leaned into me. Against me. Onto me.

Pick a preposition. I felt it.

I have learned not to resent the wall anymore. I am realizing that the wall is a sanctuary of sorts. I will keep pushing forward in spite of whatever noun is starting to hold me back or slowing me down or exhaust me until finally I arrive at the wall.

I used to think of it as a Pink Floyd Wall. Or the Berlin Wall. An Iron Curtain. A death trap waiting to swallow me.

But in the last three months, I have gained new appreciation for my wall. Tucked within the forest. Covered in soft greenery. Birdssong encapsulating this world.

I am reminded of the hog-wall my best friend and I found while hiking. Long rows of rocks set upon each other, a Robert Frost mending wall. I could imagine two people walking the wall’s length, resettling the stones, recreating the boundaries between their properties. No hostilities. Just a friendly aloofness. I see you. I regard you. I will help you if needs be. But we will keep our privacy and distance.

I am learning to sift my emotions through and within silence (more prepositions). Elongate the feelings until they are wispy thin. What is their truth? What treasure can I delve or lift from within them?

I realize, now, that really, I daily walk with my hand running along the wall or within reach of the wall. Or maybe I can see its shadow from the corner of my eye. It’s not something I’m running from or running to (ha, more prepositions). It’s something I’m living with. By. Next to.

Yes, I’m preposition silly. But I see how much I that spatial relationship established by such a tiny word shifts the emotions or establishes the tone. And I see, as well, how such a tiny word changes how I see and perceive and relate to my world.

In the end, I don’t know if I’m actually on the other side of the wall. I know that I have made peace with it. I hope for the rest of my life. Maybe just for the rest of the week. But I can see its quiet beauty. The squirrels that skitter along its length until they hop into the oak tree brimming with acorns. Or the black snakes stretched along the vibrant patches of sunlight, warming themselves, awakening their bodies for the day.

The wall isn’t pain.

The wall is peace.