outWORD by Matte Downey

This summer, I spent a lot of time walking in the park. As soon as it was warm enough and the paths were clear of snow, I started trekking through the green spaces near my house, eager to see signs of new life. The first few weeks were heady; every new bud, every spurt of green, every tender young leaf caught my eye. I was enthralled by the birds and bugs and breezes and every sign of new life around me. As time went on, this sense of wonder did not continue with the same intensity. Near the end of August, I found myself walking through the park, oftentimes lost in thought, somewhat oblivious to the long stems of grass along the water and the shiny, silver tendrils of the bushes beside the path. I was busy thinking about a writing project or a tricky relationship or a book I was reading, and as a result, I did not see what was right in front of me. But still, on occasion, I noticed. Like the time I got off the bus and started walking home, only to note that the grasses and flowers a