On the Way Home

I was nearly to the turning point of my daily walk, the park which marks the end of the trip away and the beginning of the way home, when I realized I had not been paying attention to my surroundings. More mindful now, I stopped to look at a nearby tree. Stripped of its protective bark, the inner core stood naked and vulnerable. Like me, I thought to myself.

As I left the park, I came out from the shade of a tall pine and there in the grass before me, backlit by the rising sun, was a field of diamonds. A cricket announced his presence but fell silent as I approached. Across the street, yesterday’s rain had dampened the skeleton of two houses in mid-construction, muffling, to my disappointment, the smell of freshly cut wood.

Sometimes making our way home is about finding the right path.

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