A radiantly sunny September afternoon, I’m at the northern edge of Caspian Lake, an afternoon with the slightest of breezes so the water shimmers and ripples. The summer people have all returned to other places, the local families at work or school, so it’s just me. For the longest time, I stand at the edge of the long dock and watch a bald eagle fly low over the water, then circle back and disappear into the woods.

Where do you find succor?

For years, with little girls, I spent hours with my friends at the public beach on the other side of the lake. Our worlds dispersed now, I haven’t walked there this summer. In no rush on a day that’s already been crammed with people and my to-do list, I take the longer trail back to the road. The usually wet forest is so parched the boardwalk bridges span over dry soil.

As the afternoon folds down, I take a walk along the river, the path I’ve been following all summer, watching the trout lilies give way to soapwort to the persistent asters. A pickup truck idles across the trail. A woman I knew years ago from a library kids’ group waits for me to pass, then ropes off the trail so she can move her cows from one pasture to another.

On my way home, I stop at the co-op for vinegar and coffee beans and cashews. A stranger says hello in the bulk aisle and reminds me he’d passed me on the trail, he on a bike and me walking in sandals. We talk about the moon and a star named Arcturus. When we part, he says, “See you on the trail — a metaphor for life.” Slow I am these days, as if I’m floating on my back in a warm pond, my eyes open to this flawless blue sky, the undulating water gulping in my ears. Autumn, this heartbeat of beauty, its own true metaphor.

… From this week’s New Yorker:

… what made America great—were “habits of the heart”: the everyday engagement of citizens that sustains institutions by holding leaders to account. Habits fade, but they can also be revived.