One of the things I love about being home is walking Griff several times a day. At 13 years of age, he finds one block to be just enough. He always begins energetically, and he might even work up to a trot of sorts for several meters, but then age and gravity remind him of who he is, and he returns to his slightly wobbly self, working with two back legs that seem to receive only the faintest signals from his brain. By the time we are back on our street, he starts to breathe more heavily and will take more time to inspect any given garden, or tree, or hydro pole.
I am happy enough to amble at his pace as it gives me time to enjoy the feeling of belonging. It is not that people rush out of their homes, or lean out of their windows to greet me, though of course I do often say hello to people passing on the street, or wave to neighbours up on their porches. No, it is more the feeling of familiarity that brings a wonderful contentment. It is such a different feeling than the euphoria that comes with spectacular views, or with an afternoon of riding in golden sunlight, but it also does not demand the emotional energy required when one is an interloper.
Perhaps it is not surprising that so many of us feel a division within ourselves. We desire those moments of otherness, but while we are out there exploring, there is a part of us that longs for the ease of home. Once we are back home and rested, we start conjuring the next adventure. We grow nostalgic for the feeling of pitching our tents, so to speak, in exotic locales. Or at least I do.
The question of what is enough begins to arise. Even as a child I can remember thinking is that all there is? I was often disappointed when having gotten caught up in the idea of something, no doubt as a result of advertisements on television (kids playing ecstatically with toys, or eating their wondrous sugar cereals), I found that reality failed to meet my lofty expectations.
What I have come to see is that the grandness I seek can only ever be made up of small moments strung together. They might be small, quiet moments or exotic, colourful ones, but they must necessarily exist side by side. Is it enough? I think it has to be, and when I shift my thinking and appreciate each small shimmering moment, it seems like plenty.