I was excited to take my dog Georgie to the river the other day. Having spent her first six years in a cage, she had never 1 a body of water. I wanted to get there before sunset to watch her 2 it.
I was growing increasingly 3 about all the stops she made. She checked the grass, dirt, and trees. These were all new discoveries for her, and it 4 her time to study them.
When I 5 that it was fruitless to hurry her along, I pulled out my cell phone and began texting. I needed something to do while Georgie was slowing us down.
Then, I 6 the cicadas (蝉), and I remembered that the sound of cicadas was my favorite in the world. That awardend something buried within me that longed for the simple pleasures 7 by technology.
I made a conscious decision to be present, and to 8 the journey to the river, just like Georgie. The journey was just as wonderful as the final destination would be, and it was the dog that 9 me.
Then, I 10 the beauty of the flowers and the wonder of the winding path. I 11 the grass and the flowers, and the dirt and the air. I 12 each one equally, as if 13 them for the first time. As we 14 our destination, I realized something even more important: It doesn't 15 whether we reach the river. Why must there always be a destination?
