In the mornings, we were slow to rise, slow to take on the day. But that’s what vacation is for. That’s the definition of summer.

And then, I’d cascade down the undulating hills, wind through and between paths and thickets of wildflower, toward the lake. Always, the destination, the goal, the clear blue with the rocky shoreline and scent of stone and sand.

The children piled in the stroller, exclaiming as I ran the curves to keep up with the pull of the earth. Some days, the smell of forest so rich, it enveloped us. Soil, leaf, bark, trust.

Two-lane roads at a steady pace, the sun equally steady in its flow of generosity, the coffee – every cup – soothing and roast-rich, the water used to brew it pure as a sunrise.

No need for definitions. The children’s qualms resolved by a dip of a hand in the cool clear water.

It’s always a moment in time, you know? And then that moment passes and another comes like a horse galloping toward the fence line.

Home again, suitcases unpacked, and another serene Saturday behind us. There is ecstasy in even these moments. To stroll along the farmer’s market, listen to the neighbor’s dog calling to our shared morning. Breakfast with my daughter, who awoke earlier than usual, so eager is she to have time alone.

Life is lived in the moments. Life is lived in the moments.


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