I got up this morning. Day two in New Zealand. Day two of taking a five-minute walk from my Airbnb to visit the sheep as they graze. A ten-minute walk brings me to the Maple Grove that the townspeople planted, a loopy trail winding through a rich diversity of nature, even though every leaf is some kind of maple or kin.
What is it that makes us see and feel differently in a new place, in this case a significantly different place? Perhaps it’s the long plane ride, which gave me time to discard some of the persistent, festering occupations of my mind. Perhaps it’s the light itself, shifting from my American sun to that of Oceania. After all, I can see sheep at home—well, not so much in Arizona, but certainly in my Wisconsin memories, or in other places I’ve lived where crowds of domesticated animals were a regular sight.
But here, these two mornings, I am grateful for the quiet thrill of walking down a lane, hearing birdsong, and musing about nothing in particular. It is simply wonderful.
