I’ll take the horse, and then some

There’s something about the way summer evenings are in my neighborhood that makes me never want to leave. I’ve talked about this a little before, and thankfully, over a year later, it still holds true. I walk my dog through the greenways every day, then even sometimes go for a walk or a run again, on my own. The entire time I get to take it all in, the tall trees, the rolling green hills, the mountains in the distance, the kids riding their bikes, the couples on the park benches, and even the people having dinner or a glass of wine on their patio.

There’s something about the way the breeze blows through the trees above the shaded paths and the way the late-day sun sort of blankets everything in a warm, easy light that makes me feel like everything is coming together at the end of the day. No matter how many meetings I sit in, no matter how many times my phone rings, or how many different ways I have to write something in order for one person to finally understand it, I can come home in the evening, change my clothes, call for the dog, and be out the door into a quieter world, a world that makes more sense.

Tonight I did the same. I walked through the neighborhood, up the same hills, around the same corners, waved to the same neighbors, soaked in that same hot evening sun, but I had to catch myself. It all feels so familiar now, and I wondered if that was good. It struck me that there is nothing mysterious about this routine now. And as wildly lucky as I may be to have this, I know it. I know where those sidewalks lead. There is nothing scary about them.

What is it my mother would say? Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth? It’s true, I probably shouldn’t. But tonight I couldn’t help but feel that if that gift horse had opened a door right there in the middle of the park, I would have walked right through, mouth and all.

I think what I mean is, I’m looking out for horses.  Big, pretty, scary horses.