Monday Morning Gratitude

I just got home from my morning walk with our new dog, Tucker.  I haven't written about him, yet.  Or about our buddy boy Ben, our pup of 8 years, who we lost just two months ago.  I think I am still comprehending just how much a dog means to it's family.

Tucker is a wonderful dog and, like Ben, a gift.  He gets me up before the girls and it's been a healthy time for me.  Often, as soon as we venture  outside, I feel an ease in my step.

This morning, the warm breezes tickled the many fallen leaves and roused them to dance alongside our legs and feet.  As Tucker first started to sniff about, I took in the sky, already pale blue and beautiful, dotted with freshly baked baguette shaped clouds.

And then, with the winds, they soon separated to reveal a sudden shock of light.  The moon, still wide awake and bursting with a glory I have never seen, seemed to appear just for me.  A tiny gasp escaped my lips, Tucker's ears flapping the grass under me.  I was struck still in awe.

"Thank you, God," I said.

Tucker and I continued on, along our normal route.  And despite discovering well into the walk that the poop bag had a hole, I was full of joy.  I was so content in the simplicity of the moment and the quietness of the morning.  I pondered how I could bottle my mood to swallow again later, whenever I would need a good grounding dose of my blessed reality.

There had to be a way to harness this 1.21 gigawatts of joy.

I am confident it is always there for the taking, but I overlook it so easily.  I get caught up in complications and let the dust they kick up settle over everything.  I walk on, but head down and in a fog.  Little shocks me awake like this morning's moon.  

As Tucker and I rounded the corner for home, the moon was no longer visible, but my answer suddenly was.  I had come full circle and found myself standing where I started.  And what had I done?  What had put this day on the right path?

I said, "Thank you, God."


 

Stealin' and Four-Wheelin'

I am not a risk taker.

And so, every year I turn down the opportunity to go four-wheeling in the woods surrounding my college roommate's central Pennsylvania cabin.  My husband usually goes out and I did go with him once.  I didn't dare drive.  I rode behind hugging him tight and clamoring through clenched teeth, "I don't like it.  I don't like it."

But this year, I was motivated to go again by jealousy and a beautiful day.  See, I completely trust my husband and while he is far from an experienced four-wheeler, I didn't hesitate to let him take our daughter out for a little ride. When they returned they excitedly showed me the view from the top of the hill behind the house and I knew I wanted to see it, too.

The view I just had to see for myself.

And so I went.  Camera strapped tight to my back and helmet strapped tight to my head, the hubs and I made our way through the trees that glowed golden in the fresh autumn air.  At the top, we stopped to take pictures and relax a bit, finally on vacation from our kids and our cares.  

City girl four-wheelin' in the country.

Enthused by reaching the summit and comfortable with our girls safe at the cabin with our friends, I actually asked for more.  We headed off back down the mountain and found a large corn field to explore.  After awhile we stopped again to get artsy fartsy with our camera because that's what you're supposed to do when you go four-wheeling, right?

Artsy fartsy feed corn.

And then, before I really even knew it, I plucked this and another ear of corn as a souvenir.  We don't grow much corn in Baltimore and I ignorantly believed taking two ears of feed corn was akin to picking two dandelions out of the cracks of someone's driveway.

It is not.

Within seconds of hopping back on the four-wheeler, a red sedan screeched off the road and approached us on the trail.

"Who are you?" the woman demanded as she emerged from her car.

"Uh, uh," my husband stammered, "We are friends of the..."

"Kellers!" I offered, remembering my friend's parent's name first.  I pointed back in what I thought was the general direction of the cabin.

"Eh heh." The woman grunted.  "I see.  I also see you have helped yourself to some corn.  Eh."

I clutched the ears, a bit buttered with guilt.

Chivalry is not dead and my husband came to my defense.  "Oh.  Well, we just thought they would be nice for decorating."

We did?

"Heh.  Fine."  Flashing us one more threatening hairy eyeball, she left.

It is unclear where she came from, but she certainly ended our fun.  And I am not sure whether she taught me to take even fewer risks or to take a few more.  But I do know that our door looks smashing this season.

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