Edouard Manet, The Swallows, 1873

I'm thankful for the countryside. For any day that I can lie lazily lounging in the open air, as the wind rushes through fields of Kansas blue stem. I am thankful for the rusty-palette and quiet splendor of autumn, the biting chill of winter on my cheeks, the budding beauty of spring, the sweat of summer nights. I am thankful for the hot July night, two years back, when I saw thousands of fireflies flicker between the trees, like the willow-the-wisps of folklore, so that the night sky and the woods around became as one. For the afternoon I spent at the pumpkin patch on Holmes with my sister, laughing and racing through the corn maze, willingly losing ourselves in the winding aisles of crop. For the days before my license, when Michael, Adam, Will, Deko, Chris, and I would trek for an hour just to waste the day at the park or wander the aisles of Price Chopper. The nights that we would steal out of our homes to play Manhunt.

And with these last two, I've touched upon something that I had not considered when I set out writing this post: That these moments stand out because they are shared. I've enjoyed my share of lonely days wandering the hills and creek beds near my grandparents' home, and I cherish those evenings of self discovery. But those shared moments of glory - whether the wonder was lost on my company or not - are those that truly shine.

Just two weeks ago, Max and I fixed up bikes in the driveway of his new home, desperate to set off in search of adventure in the last hours of sunlight. Our repairs made, we mounted up and raced through his neighborhood, up sidewalks and down asphalt roads, past joggers and couples and children playing in yards. In that moment we were free. We smiled like we hadn't since the year began.