Earlier this summer, I rode for days in the Rocky Mountains. We looked down at sunstreaked valleys and rode up into the grey mist of an alpine cloud. It was a wonderful experience to hold in my heart: the availability of so much nature, as far as my eye could see, and me in the middle of all of it, on horseback.
This morning, I galloped a horse named Mack full-out down a beach. His hooves splashed through the incoming tide at the edge of a crystal, turquoise sea. It was something my landlocked, prairie heart has always wanted. The whip of wind and sun and ocean spray on my face, closing my eyes for a few seconds to try to remain right in the middle of the moment.
I am so blessed to have experience both sides of this coin within just a few months.
And still, when we had dismounted our horses, given them those last pats and were driving in our campervan back up the road, I thought of riding my own horse, that animal who is one of my oldest, truest friends, down the sun-dappled lane out to the back pasture in our own home. It's something about knowing who I am. Knowing how to follow my desires and hopes, but being able to return to the place that I am meant to be in.