In winter, the snow plow threw a huge ridge of snow into the field, parallel to road. Someone invariably ran a skidoo along the top, leaving an elevated walkway perfect for small people bundled in snowsuits with only their eyes showing. (Winter walks were actually more of a waddle into town.) From our lofty height, we surveyed a rolling domain of diamond crusted fields, sparkling in the clear winter sunlight.
Memory images are not like a movie - there’s no plot, no distinct connection of why and where we were going, or how we got home. The actual journey toward is what made an impression - the discovery of along-the-way, the being in the present. And isn’t that what we need a little more of? Our lives get so busy, so scheduled and planned ahead with destinations mapped. Remember to take in the simple joys of the everyday journey - to stop and smell the roses, as it were.