(3.12.10) Memories of My Father

I remember little of living in France as a child. But I do remember my father--exuberant--holding my hand as we jumped to crack the iced-over mud puddles on the way to school. He taught me a lesson in being a kid during those days. Puddle jumping has become a life long habit.

I only have vague impressions of visiting the Grand Canyon as a child. I do remember my father, weary with stress, awed by the immensity before him. The wilderness, it seemed, was a place of healing. In the midst of natural grandeur, peace comes to the aches of the human world. I hold this as truth today.

Thanks, Dad, for teaching me how to enjoy the joys of the wild.