In contrast to newness, many, many places feel familiar. Vistas and view points, places to sit and contemplate, places to hide from crowds on certain days of the week, trees and streams that glisten in the right light for your attention. Visiting in all seasons, I can take my imagination there and make an educated visualization about what might be happening. I can see that elk herd I tracked once across the hillside, only to finding the whole herd stopping its grazing to stare at me carefully. I can taste the water from the near-by spring where I filled my bottle up numerous times as a kid. I can hear the particular sound the wind makes, moving across pine needles, whether it might be the mighty Ponderosas or the gentle Juniper. I feel fulfilled knowing that I might know what’s around the next bend on a particular trail, and I can look forward to there, to pause in that softness of coming home.

Newness. Familiar. I’ll take both.