I see bikers speed down the hill in front of our house. I don't ride like that. I ride slowly and even a little tentatively from time to time. I live my days at top speed, so this Tuesday afternoon I pedaled like a Sunday driver.
All the time in the world and hardly a care. I left all the cares I owned back at the house.
I'm a tourist in my own neck of the woods. I know which neighbor's fence was damaged by the plows this winter. I can show you where the most vibrant bush of forsythia grows. I biked down roads I've never been down before, waving to folks out mowing their lawns, and admiring tiny daisies planted around a mailbox.
On my baby blue bike I can see and be a part of what I might miss otherwise. The shape of a leaf. How many shades of gray color the rain-filled clouds. A reflection on a pond. Tree after tree abloom and alive.
It was quiet. And I could hear myself think - if I wanted to hear myself think.
Which I didn't.
Sometimes hope needs a road trip.