The essay as a mode of navigating the world.
I have always thought of the essay as a way of walking through the world, not with a map, but with a sense of curiosity, of testing the terrain as I go. It is not about certainty or about closing questions. It is about noticing, attending, and trying. When I write, I do not know where I will end, and in that uncertainty there is a kind of freedom. The essay is a rehearsal for life; it teaches me how to pay attention without being consumed, how to measure what matters without demanding conclusions.
I have noticed, over the years, that the impulse to write essays often begins in the spaces between clarity and confusion, between obligation and desire. In business, for instance, there is a relentless drive to declare, to predict, to perform. Reports are written, dashboards refreshed, strategies rehearsed. But insight does not live in certainty. It lives in the pause, in the reflection that happens quietly before a decision is made. I have learned that writing essays trains the mind to hold ambiguity without anxiety, to weigh multiple possibilities, to notice patterns that are invisible in the rush of metrics. To essay an idea is to treat it like a living thing: to watch it, to follow it, to test its limits, and to revise one’s understanding accordingly.
The same is true in art. I have found that creativity requires a practice of experimentation, a willingness to move between forms and voices without knowing in advance what will stick. The essay is a laboratory, a rehearsal space, a place where observation and imagination meet. I sketch, I stumble, I cross lines, I pause. Each attempt teaches something about process, about perception, about the elasticity of attention. There is a humility in this practice: a recognition that meaning is provisional, that the world resists being fully contained. And yet, in this instability, I feel more alive, more attuned, more capable of inhabiting contradiction without fear.
I have also discovered the essay in nature. Walking through a forest or along a river, I take notes, I watch shadows shift, I try to record the precise sound of wind in leaves. The essay demands that I attend to place, to the interdependence of beings, to the subtle rhythms that pass unnoticed if I rush or glance too quickly. I have learned that attention itself is a kind of care, that noticing is an ethical act, and that writing is a method for translating observation into understanding. In a world facing ecological crises, this practice feels urgent. To write with awareness is to resist abstraction, to engage fully, and to carry insight into action.
I practice essays as I move through cities, mountains, languages, and ideas. Each walk, each conversation, each fleeting observation becomes a tentative probe, a small experiment in thought. Over time, these attempts accumulate into a map of perception, a record of attention, a pattern of insight. The essay trains me to move through complexity without losing orientation, to hold multiple threads of experience at once, and to remain receptive to what is unexpected.
At wordtreks, I bring the essay off the page and into the field. Language becomes both compass and companion. I write to track movement, to record observation, to explore the contours of experience. I write to test my understanding, to listen as I speak, to make sense of the world without assuming I can master it. The essay teaches me to inhabit process, to trust curiosity, and to remain awake. In this practice, I have found that the essay is not a relic of humanist instruction, but a living method for navigating a world that is constantly changing, often confounding, and always full of small, perceptible wonders.
Writing essays is, ultimately, an act of attention. It is a practice of humility and inquiry, a method for tracing connections, a way to remain alive to nuance, contradiction, and discovery. It is a form that teaches patience without stagnation, reflection without resignation. The essay does not end with the writer. It continues in the reader, in the spaces between sentences, in the thoughts that emerge long after the page is closed. To write essays is to wander with purpose, to move without certainty, and to discover the world by taking it slowly, step by step, word by word.
- JD Hixson
I have noticed, over the years, that the impulse to write essays often begins in the spaces between clarity and confusion, between obligation and desire. In business, for instance, there is a relentless drive to declare, to predict, to perform. Reports are written, dashboards refreshed, strategies rehearsed. But insight does not live in certainty. It lives in the pause, in the reflection that happens quietly before a decision is made. I have learned that writing essays trains the mind to hold ambiguity without anxiety, to weigh multiple possibilities, to notice patterns that are invisible in the rush of metrics. To essay an idea is to treat it like a living thing: to watch it, to follow it, to test its limits, and to revise one’s understanding accordingly.
The same is true in art. I have found that creativity requires a practice of experimentation, a willingness to move between forms and voices without knowing in advance what will stick. The essay is a laboratory, a rehearsal space, a place where observation and imagination meet. I sketch, I stumble, I cross lines, I pause. Each attempt teaches something about process, about perception, about the elasticity of attention. There is a humility in this practice: a recognition that meaning is provisional, that the world resists being fully contained. And yet, in this instability, I feel more alive, more attuned, more capable of inhabiting contradiction without fear.
I have also discovered the essay in nature. Walking through a forest or along a river, I take notes, I watch shadows shift, I try to record the precise sound of wind in leaves. The essay demands that I attend to place, to the interdependence of beings, to the subtle rhythms that pass unnoticed if I rush or glance too quickly. I have learned that attention itself is a kind of care, that noticing is an ethical act, and that writing is a method for translating observation into understanding. In a world facing ecological crises, this practice feels urgent. To write with awareness is to resist abstraction, to engage fully, and to carry insight into action.
I practice essays as I move through cities, mountains, languages, and ideas. Each walk, each conversation, each fleeting observation becomes a tentative probe, a small experiment in thought. Over time, these attempts accumulate into a map of perception, a record of attention, a pattern of insight. The essay trains me to move through complexity without losing orientation, to hold multiple threads of experience at once, and to remain receptive to what is unexpected.
At wordtreks, I bring the essay off the page and into the field. Language becomes both compass and companion. I write to track movement, to record observation, to explore the contours of experience. I write to test my understanding, to listen as I speak, to make sense of the world without assuming I can master it. The essay teaches me to inhabit process, to trust curiosity, and to remain awake. In this practice, I have found that the essay is not a relic of humanist instruction, but a living method for navigating a world that is constantly changing, often confounding, and always full of small, perceptible wonders.
Writing essays is, ultimately, an act of attention. It is a practice of humility and inquiry, a method for tracing connections, a way to remain alive to nuance, contradiction, and discovery. It is a form that teaches patience without stagnation, reflection without resignation. The essay does not end with the writer. It continues in the reader, in the spaces between sentences, in the thoughts that emerge long after the page is closed. To write essays is to wander with purpose, to move without certainty, and to discover the world by taking it slowly, step by step, word by word.
- JD Hixson