I spent a day with my family in the Tillamook State Forest. While the boys were enjoying a BBQ, Taryn and I set out for a walk on a fire road, trailing behind mountain bike rider and friend, Sue.
We picked up walking sticks; stopped and stared at elk droppings while bent at the waist (only we used the technical term “poop”); and picked up such treasures as a piece of dried out bone and a half-dead snail (because the shell was so pretty). We were adventurers!
As we’re trying to figure the best way to carry all our riches, an old memory flashed in my mind that I hadn’t thought of in years. When I was Taryn’s age, my dad would take me out exploring the deserts of New Mexico. I, just like my daughter, would find all manner of trinkets that had to be, without question, collected and taken home. But my dad, I suddenly remembered while holding a half-dead snail, would bring plastic ziplock bags to neatly hold whatever messy objects I deemed desirable.
Life really is a circle. A series of circles, actually. Next time Taryn and I go wandering the wilds of Oregon or Washington, I’ll bring some baggies. And maybe, in 30 or 40 years when she’s out exploring with her daughter, picking up messy and divine treasures, she’ll suddenly get a flash or our journeys together and begin to share a story about when she was a little girl. Her mother, she’ll say, would bring plastic ziplock baggies to hold such riches. And she’ll smile and think how wonderful are the circles of life.
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