"Herrera shouldn't have pitched in the eighth." Pardon me while I talk a little Royals baseball. You see, after watching a dozen games, I know something. Never mind the previous sixty-four sports-free years of my existence. "It's H-D-H 7-8-9. Boom. Yost forgot his own formula." I've picked up just enough info to make myself edgy and opinionated. My husband adds, "Yeah, that's why people say fire the manager." So now I know What People Say and I know what People mean when they say it. I'm getting cocky.

A proficient know-it-all needs cockiness. As long as I'm reeling off the tiny bit I know regarding the Royals' relief pitchers and the Giants' I-don't-need-no-stinkin'-relief Bumgarner, I can ignore the fact that the size of what I don't know dwarfs what I do know. Honestly, I don't even know who won the World Series. But you do.

Here's the thing. As I write this, the World Series has already been won. As you read this, you know who won it. You might not even care who won, but you know. Right now, most everybody knows––except for me, because I'm stuck back here in the past, a day before game six. However, my ignorance doesn't bother me a bit. When my time catches up with yours, you can bet I'll look you in the eye and tell you this: "I knew they'd win."

"Can you … do you think … could you … pick one out for me?' I fingered a beret in a booth at the Maple Festival. Mary and Nicki sifted through their piles of autumn-colored knit caps. "Too small, Nicki said. "Try this one." Mary plopped a floppy number on my head. She patted and tugged and fluffed; my face was the center of her attention.

Her fingertip grazed my temple. I leaned ever so slightly into the spot where skin pressed against skin. The sensation raised a memory: another woman's hands––from long ago––that had failed to pat my cheek, failed to braid my hair, failed to articulate my essential prettiness.

"Beautiful," Mary said. She held up a mirror. I peeked. She was right.

I saw very few maple trees at the Maple Festival. They shied away, their scarlets and oranges dulled in comparison with the blazing cuteness of me in my new hat. Touring other craft booths, I pretended to savor cinnamon-roasted almonds, plucked one at a time from out of a paper cone––but really, I was enthralled with how the soft yarn was caressing my ears, warding off the chill of past neglect.

I snuggled into bed that night, still wearing my new hat.
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The glass walls of an outdoor labyrinth imprisoned me within narrow corridors, while giving the illusion there were no barriers. Unlike other labyrinths I'd walked before, this one was triangular, its interior not graceful curves, but all straight lines and angles.

I was timid, because although the whole thing was transparent, I couldn't see which way, or when, to turn. (Forehead-shaped smudges on the walls announced where some who'd entered earlier had misjudged the design.) What lay just ahead? Would the path angle off to the left or right? Or would my next footfall smack me into the glass?

A queasiness in my stomach intensified with every step, as a familiar hunger for safety gnawed at my gut.

The partitions opened at unpredictable moments, in unexpected directions, but I recognized a rhythm in my body––a slow build of anxiety, followed by relief. Lungs tightened around the breath and then set it free. I began to trust that rhythm. Fear marked a turning point; relief marked another. Rewarding my faith, the glass passageway guided me to the center and eventually spilled me back out onto the lawn.

I'm still waiting to learn such faith in life. To trust that fear evaporates and openings appear.

Read about another contemplative walk.