Every morning I follow the path to the park, Beaumont the Sheepadoodle in the lead, eager to reach the area where he can run off leash.
For the past two weeks I have been taking a different path. We walk up the hill to the escarpment and walk along the ridge overlooking the Bow River winding its way through the valley bottom below.
The fall colours have been breath-taking.
Golds and rust and bright yellows compete with the still green leaves clinging to the last vestiges of summer.
Every morning I follow the path knowing eventually, it will lead me home again.
There is comfort in that knowing. Comfort in its familiarity and predictability.
This morning, Beaumont and I chose to walk the path along the river, forgoing the steep uphill climb to the escarpment.
Winding our way through the woods, listening to the dry, fallen leaves crunch beneath our feet and the water lazily babble its way to the east, the muse drifted in and settled in for a visit like a good friend coming for tea.
Words and images, thoughts and ideas scampered through my mind like dry leaves being lifted and scattered by an autumn breeze.
Sometimes I followed their drift. Sometimes I simply nodded in recognition of their presence and let them drift out of my mind’s eye.
Always, I knew they were leading me home. To my heart. My hearth.
I walked the path I haven’t taken in awhile this morning.
I walked with the knowing, the path lead me where it always does. Into beauty, wonder and awe.