As I walk, I see gates everywhere—most closed, some locked, a few standing open. And beyond the gates, rhododendrons dressed in mauve and fuscia and pink, fountains of canary yellow forsythia blossoms, tidy rows of a purple flower I can’t name. The beauty draws me; the gate keeps me out.
There’s someone on my bike route with a fun sense of humor. I’ve never met them, but each time I bike, the trail of lightness they’ve left behind makes me smile. Midway through my bike ride, these folks’ lighter way of seeing the world reminds me to look up and
I woke this morning from a dream in which I was setting out to bike over a bridge. Before I could get onto the bridge, though, I had to squeeze through a segment that was more like a tight tunnel than a bridge. It was so tight, in fact, that
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