my classroom

I went hiking in the Laguna Lake open space yesterday, a little after noon. The air was clean and sparkly from the previous night’s storm, mountains bursting into the blue, streams of white clouds drifting from the northwest toward the southeast. The trail paths were more giving, spongier from the rain.

I’d walked there the seven consecutive days, the seventh last Friday, and hiked the Bob Jones trail Saturday and the Lemon Grove loop – replete with a path-sharing deer – Sunday. I went out to Laguna Lake Monday, before the rains, and again yesterday.

Two distinct thoughts have come to me. The feeling that if I do not amble along through that vast mountain and lake space I might miss something. And I don’t want to miss ‘it.’ Secondly, the reason I’m walking slower and slower each time out is because I don’t want ‘it’ to end. I don’t want ‘it’ to be over. The thrill. That experience. The awe.

I never feel like a guest in the vastness, never feel like some small insignificant thing. I feel welcomed, every time, one with, part of. Kind of too cool for school.