The Practice Travels With You

This morning, I reached into the pocket of my coat and found a tiny pinecone.

I'd picked it up on a walk a couple of days ago, apparently deciding it was worth bringing home. Then I'd forgotten all about it. There it was, nestled in the corner of my pocket, a little souvenir of an ordinary afternoon.

I turned it over in my hand, admiring its perfect little scales, and wondered what had caught my attention about this particular pinecone. There must have been dozens scattered along the path. Why this one?

I don't remember.

But I do remember the walk. The bright sunshine, the cool air, the sound of leaves underfoot, the particular pleasure of being outside with nowhere I urgently needed to be.