My family is part of the Miami tribe a Native American people, with strong ties to territory in present-day Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois. Growing up in the Midwest, I often heard my grandmother talk about "Miami time." When she was doing something she loved, whether it was making freezer jam or researching tribal history, she refused to be rushed in a hurry. “I’m on Miami time today," she would say. Conversely, if we were running late for an appointment. She would chide us by saying, "Get a move on. We're not running on Miami time today, you know."

It was a difficult concept for me to grasp. My grandmother tried to explain that "Miami time" referred to those moments, when time seemed to slow down or stand still. Recently, the meaning of her words started to sink in. 

One morning, my son and I will inadvertently slip out of the world measured in seconds, minutes, and hours, and into one measured by curiosity and sensation.

[1] On a familiar trail near our house, I was pushing Jeremy in his stroller and were thinking of the day ahead and the tasks I had to complete. [2] Suddenly, he squealed with pure delight and pointed toward a clearing. [3] There, two does and three fawns stood watching us. [4] Five pairs of ears flicked like antennae seeking a signal. [5] After a few moments, the deer lowered their heads and began to eat, as if they had decided we were harmless. [6] By then, my son's face was full of wonder. 

We spent the rest of the morning veering from the trail to investigate small snatches of life. Lizards lazing in the sun and quail rustled through grasses surprised us.

Wild blackberries melted on our tongues. For example, the aroma of crushed eucalyptus leaves tingled in our noses.

By the time we found our way back to the car, the sun was high in the sky. We had taken three hours to complete a hike we usually finished in forty-five minutes. Yet the hike felt shorter then ever. As we drove off, I remembered something else my grandmother used to say: "Miami time passes all too quickly." 

My family is part of the Miami tribe a Native American people, with strong ties to territory in present-day Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois. Growing up in the Midwest, I often heard my grandmother talk about "Miami time." When she was doing something she loved, whether it was making freezer jam or researching tribal history, she refused to be rushed in a hurry. “I’m on Miami time today," she would say. Conversely, if we were running late for an appointment. She would chide us by saying, "Get a move on. We're not running on Miami time today, you know."

It was a difficult concept for me to grasp. My grandmother tried to explain that "Miami time" referred to those moments, when time seemed to slow down or stand still. Recently, the meaning of her words started to sink in. 

One morning, my son and I will inadvertently slip out of the world measured in seconds, minutes, and hours, and into one measured by curiosity and sensation.

[1] On a familiar trail near our house, I was pushing Jeremy in his stroller and were thinking of the day ahead and the tasks I had to complete. [2] Suddenly, he squealed with pure delight and pointed toward a clearing. [3] There, two does and three fawns stood watching us. [4] Five pairs of ears flicked like antennae seeking a signal. [5] After a few moments, the deer lowered their heads and began to eat, as if they had decided we were harmless. [6] By then, my son's face was full of wonder. 

We spent the rest of the morning veering from the trail to investigate small snatches of life. Lizards lazing in the sun and quail rustled through grasses surprised us.

Wild blackberries melted on our tongues. For example, the aroma of crushed eucalyptus leaves tingled in our noses.

By the time we found our way back to the car, the sun was high in the sky. We had taken three hours to complete a hike we usually finished in forty-five minutes. Yet the hike felt shorter then ever. As we drove off, I remembered something else my grandmother used to say: "Miami time passes all too quickly." 

My family is part of the Miami tribe a Native American people, with strong ties to territory in present-day Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois. Growing up in the Midwest, I often heard my grandmother talk about "Miami time." When she was doing something she loved, whether it was making freezer jam or researching tribal history, she refused to be rushed in a hurry. “I’m on Miami time today," she would say. Conversely, if we were running late for an appointment. She would chide us by saying, "Get a move on. We're not running on Miami time today, you know."

It was a difficult concept for me to grasp. My grandmother tried to explain that "Miami time" referred to those moments, when time seemed to slow down or stand still. Recently, the meaning of her words started to sink in. 

One morning, my son and I will inadvertently slip out of the world measured in seconds, minutes, and hours, and into one measured by curiosity and sensation.

[1] On a familiar trail near our house, I was pushing Jeremy in his stroller and were thinking of the day ahead and the tasks I had to complete. [2] Suddenly, he squealed with pure delight and pointed toward a clearing. [3] There, two does and three fawns stood watching us. [4] Five pairs of ears flicked like antennae seeking a signal. [5] After a few moments, the deer lowered their heads and began to eat, as if they had decided we were harmless. [6] By then, my son's face was full of wonder. 

We spent the rest of the morning veering from the trail to investigate small snatches of life. Lizards lazing in the sun and quail rustled through grasses surprised us.

Wild blackberries melted on our tongues. For example, the aroma of crushed eucalyptus leaves tingled in our noses.

By the time we found our way back to the car, the sun was high in the sky. We had taken three hours to complete a hike we usually finished in forty-five minutes. Yet the hike felt shorter then ever. As we drove off, I remembered something else my grandmother used to say: "Miami time passes all too quickly." 

My family is part of the Miami tribe a Native American people, with strong ties to territory in present-day Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois. Growing up in the Midwest, I often heard my grandmother talk about "Miami time." When she was doing something she loved, whether it was making freezer jam or researching tribal history, she refused to be rushed in a hurry. “I’m on Miami time today," she would say. Conversely, if we were running late for an appointment. She would chide us by saying, "Get a move on. We're not running on Miami time today, you know."

It was a difficult concept for me to grasp. My grandmother tried to explain that "Miami time" referred to those moments, when time seemed to slow down or stand still. Recently, the meaning of her words started to sink in. 

One morning, my son and I will inadvertently slip out of the world measured in seconds, minutes, and hours, and into one measured by curiosity and sensation.

[1] On a familiar trail near our house, I was pushing Jeremy in his stroller and were thinking of the day ahead and the tasks I had to complete. [2] Suddenly, he squealed with pure delight and pointed toward a clearing. [3] There, two does and three fawns stood watching us. [4] Five pairs of ears flicked like antennae seeking a signal. [5] After a few moments, the deer lowered their heads and began to eat, as if they had decided we were harmless. [6] By then, my son's face was full of wonder. 

We spent the rest of the morning veering from the trail to investigate small snatches of life. Lizards lazing in the sun and quail rustled through grasses surprised us.

Wild blackberries melted on our tongues. For example, the aroma of crushed eucalyptus leaves tingled in our noses.

By the time we found our way back to the car, the sun was high in the sky. We had taken three hours to complete a hike we usually finished in forty-five minutes. Yet the hike felt shorter then ever. As we drove off, I remembered something else my grandmother used to say: "Miami time passes all too quickly." 

My family is part of the Miami tribe a Native American people, with strong ties to territory in present-day Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois. Growing up in the Midwest, I often heard my grandmother talk about "Miami time." When she was doing something she loved, whether it was making freezer jam or researching tribal history, she refused to be rushed in a hurry. “I’m on Miami time today," she would say. Conversely, if we were running late for an appointment. She would chide us by saying, "Get a move on. We're not running on Miami time today, you know."

It was a difficult concept for me to grasp. My grandmother tried to explain that "Miami time" referred to those moments, when time seemed to slow down or stand still. Recently, the meaning of her words started to sink in. 

One morning, my son and I will inadvertently slip out of the world measured in seconds, minutes, and hours, and into one measured by curiosity and sensation.

[1] On a familiar trail near our house, I was pushing Jeremy in his stroller and were thinking of the day ahead and the tasks I had to complete. [2] Suddenly, he squealed with pure delight and pointed toward a clearing. [3] There, two does and three fawns stood watching us. [4] Five pairs of ears flicked like antennae seeking a signal. [5] After a few moments, the deer lowered their heads and began to eat, as if they had decided we were harmless. [6] By then, my son's face was full of wonder. 

We spent the rest of the morning veering from the trail to investigate small snatches of life. Lizards lazing in the sun and quail rustled through grasses surprised us.

Wild blackberries melted on our tongues. For example, the aroma of crushed eucalyptus leaves tingled in our noses.

By the time we found our way back to the car, the sun was high in the sky. We had taken three hours to complete a hike we usually finished in forty-five minutes. Yet the hike felt shorter then ever. As we drove off, I remembered something else my grandmother used to say: "Miami time passes all too quickly."