Not even a half block away from me, the old church bells are heard ringing in the time.

9am.

A short intro tune followed by nine chimes and then in closing, a small hymn that I cannot place. There’s something beautiful about it that is hard to place.

It calls me back to a place in my childhood.

Playing in the forests close by my home in Germany. It takes me back to a cool late fall or early winter morning on a Saturday or Sunday. The light smell of fireplace wood-smoke in the crisp, cool air, layered with the smell of fallen leaves, earth and frost.

My first thoughts go there, always to the cool of the Fall and Winter mornings. Where the magic and anticipation of the coming Holidays began each year. But I can still recall the petrichor-like smell of dew on new grass and the warming sun on a late Spring or early summer morning and the promise of Freedom of day-long adventures, sweat and dirt.

And in all of those seasons: somewhere in the distance the peal of church bells in the nearby village.

My heart was more alive back then in those forests and fields; a child’s heart. Life was still relatively new and I’d only had one or two scars upon that young heart. Even now, a Piece of that heart remains. Hopeful, alive, looking for the Magic in Life, but guarded. A place where the sunrise always hold promise, and the sunset leaves a sense of awe and a yearning for the new day.

Waiting for a time when all things become new.