I WAS recently in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, walking with my dog across a lush green field in the quiet of late autumn. The air had that stillness the season sometimes grants - cool, steady, unhurried. As we moved along the edge of tall grass, something extraordinary unfolded before me.

Across the open field, five horses suddenly appeared in a full gallop, their hooves a pounding drumbeat on the earth. They were running straight toward me. Not with fear or aggression, but with purpose - drawn by curiosity. Their approach was breathtaking. For a moment, it was just the wind, the field, my dog, and these five horses moving toward me with calm, unmistakable purpose.

Then, astonishingly, they slowed - from a gallop to a trot, and finally to a powerful stillness just feet away. Five horses, regal and unhurried, stood before me as if they had chosen me for this moment. My heart raced - not from fear, but from wonder. From the raw and unexpected beauty of being met so directly by such extraordinary creatures.

One of them stepped closer. Its coat was a soft blend of white and pale blonde, its eyes calm and knowing. I reached out without thinking and laid my hand on its neck. Its warmth met my palm - steadying, grounding, alive. As I stroked its mane and head, a small spur came into view, caught in the strands. Gently, I worked it free until it came loose. It felt oddly symbolic - this small act of care offered to an animal that had chosen to trust me enough to let me stand close.

It was an enlivening moment - one that made me feel fully present in a way that is rare. The kind of moment that arrives unannounced and leaves you subtly, unmistakably changed. As the year moves toward its close, I’ve been wondering what the lesson was, standing there in that late-autumn field with five horses gathered around me.

It was a reminder that life still holds surprises capable of stopping us in our tracks. That connection - unexpected, unplanned, and pure - can appear just when we’ve forgotten to look for it. It made me think of places like Cornwall, where land meets sea and the horizon feels wider than your worries. Moments like that remind you to breathe deeper, look longer, and stay open to wonder.

I’m reminded of a line from Mary Oliver, the Pulitzer Prize–winning American poet whose work often draws profound insight from simple encounters with the natural world: “Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.” Maybe that’s the invitation these horses carried with them.

Beauty still seeks us out. Presence is something we step into, not something we manufacture. As this year turns its final page, may we stay open to the quiet gifts waiting just beyond the tall grass - the ones that remind us there is still more wonder ahead than behind.

May the coming weeks bring moments of reflection, peace, and connection. May Christmas and the holiday season be gentle, warm, and filled with the quiet joys that make life meaningful.