Locked Out
I arrive home from work, tired but victorious, and march confidently toward my front door—only to discover I am missing one crucial detail: my keys.
No one else is home. Of course no one else is home.
I check my bag once. Then again, slower, as if the keys might materialize out of guilt. They do not. With the determination of someone who has watched exactly one crime show, I attempt to break into my own house by forcing the sliding glass door open. It doesn’t budge.
Which, honestly, is comforting. Because if it had worked, I’d be standing there staring at the door thinking, Well. That’s unsettling. Anyone with mild determination could live here now.
Thankfully—and this is where foresight earns its keep—I packed my camera. When life locks you out, you don’t panic. You go take photographs.
So off I go to James A. Bible Park, walking very, very slowly in an effort to pass time. Denver has dressed itself up in fall finery, and the park is showing off shamelessly. Golds, reds, the kind of light that feels intentional. Gorgeous. I’m telling you.
James A Bible Park
James A. Bible Park in the fall feels like stepping into a fairy tale—one where nothing bad ever happens and everyone has good boots. I love it there.
I decide to simply wander up and down the creek. Not far. No grand expedition. And yet every direction I turn offers something absurdly scenic. It’s almost rude. I start feeling like Aurora in Sleeping Beauty, except instead of woodland creatures dressing me, I’m taking photos and claiming the park as my kingdom.
And honestly? I think that feeling comes through.
I spend an hour or two lost in leaves and light and quiet joy. Eventually, responsibility calls me back home—hopefully to an unlocked door and a lesson gently learned.
But for a while there, being locked out turned into exactly what I needed: a pause, a walk, and proof that sometimes inconvenience is just the universe nudging you toward something beautiful.
