Emily Davis was never a student of mine. I never even met her in all her young years as she changed the lives of so many while battling cancer. Yet, when she passed away five years ago on this day, I found myself mourning her death as if I had known her.

But I did not know Emily, at least in the sense of meeting her in person. I am a member of the community comprising thousands whose lives were touched deeply by such an inspiring, courageous girl, a 15-year-old artist and hero who shared the passion of living and loving so strongly that it reached us, stayed with us, forever changing our lives and making us better individuals toward each other.

Emily’s love and inspiration touched those who knew her well so deeply that, in knowing them, I was touched forever by her strength in working with others, helping them see beauty  within themselves.

That love, that courage to make the most of today and to allow others to see it as well, is with me as strongly today as it was five years ago when Emily died.

Here’s why:

When I was much younger, still a teen in high school, I took a class called Education for Responsible Parenthood, and in that class I met a wonderful young girl named Meggie Curd, who, at the age of 8, was battling cancer. Now, this was 27 years ago that I met Meggie, and I did not get many chances to spend time with her or even get to know her well as I might a friend I see every day. But the frequency of visits did not matter at all. Meeting Meggie just those few times was all I needed to understand that we all have choices in our life in how we use our precious moments here on Earth. We can spend our time in sadness or grief over our past or our present, or we can embrace the new moments that are yet to come, filled with possibility and with hope, filled with whatever we choose to make of them.

Meggie did two things: She decided to see love in those moments, and she decided to share that love with others, so strongly and powerfully that it stayed with them so that they, too, could share that magic and that love with those they met along the way.

When Meggie died, we all cried and mourned her passing. But when we hugged each other in support and in comfort, we knew that each of us contained a gift from her to carry with us for the rest of our lives. She allowed us to see the beauty in these moments that we experience, and we have the awesome responsibility of sharing that love, that beauty, with all whom we meet.

That responsibility, that love, stays with us forever.

About four years ago, I was at a local restaurant with a good friend when I saw a few members of Emily’s family a few tables away. I wanted to let Emily’s mom know that her daughter, through her friends and her family, had touched me deeply with that love and seeing the beauty in each moment. A few others from the Davis party joined us at our table, and I shared my story of Meggie with her, telling her that Emily’s memory will not fade away; it will stay strongly with us just like Meggie’s memory is still with me and so many others.

One of the Ms. Davis’ friends who joined us at the table had been Emily’s nurse. She looked at me and smiled. “Meggie Curd?” she asked. I looked at her, a little incredulously and nodded. “Meggie was my patient. She touched people like that. She’s still making a difference.”

I got over the initial surprise that Emily’s nurse had also known Meggie as well. And today, I take great strength in the way our lives cross in such important ways. It reminds me that the ripple of love, of courage, of hope never ends as we carry with us the people in our lives who have passed on.

There is great sadness in the passing of a friend, a loved one, especially so young. But their lives, and the way they lived them, serve as reminders to us all how there is much to savor in a single moment. Each passing second contains an opportunity to make a difference, to reach out and remind each other that we do have a choice. In Emily’s memory, and in the memories of so many others that have passed on so early in their lives, I choose to see that love and pass it along.

I encourage you to read more about Emily’s story on her website, and please join me today in making a donation to her foundation. As importantly, please join me in taking a moment (or two, or every one) and making a choice to see and share that opportunity for love.

I know that, for each of us, the title of this post means something a little different.

And I am sure, as well, that nearly immediately after reading the title, you thought a little to yourself what that means: Returning home.

For me, I did that yesterday morning, just a little after sunrise, on the NCR Trail (now dubbed the TCB Trail officially, but that’s probably the last time you’ll ever see or hear me refer to it that way), in northern Baltimore County.

I have always felt a great affinity for the woods, the shore line, the mountains. And it doesn’t take much immersion for me to feel like I have returned home to a place that is both as natural and comforting to me as any childhood dwelling might be for others.

I am at greatest peace, and feel my strongest, when surrounded by nature.

To those of you who know me, it is my Querencia.

First, the history, then yesterday’s ride.

I spent more than half of my childhood days in the outdoors. At just six months, I was tenting all over the region with my parents and older sister (I’m not sure if any of my brothers were still camping with us when I started; they were all in their teens when I was born). My parents had a few favorite spots they would go to when I was older, like Morris Meadows, Gettysburg, Harper’s Ferry, Cape Henelopen, and various places along the Susquehanna in Pennsylvania. We also stayed close to parks along the Chesapeake as well as the Appalachian Trail.

Life didn’t change much when we got rid of the tent and started using a truck camper. These were the memories with my sister that I will treasure forever. It seemed like there was never enough to do once we arrived at the campground: fishing, swimming, community center, miniature golf, hiking, and meeting and reuniting with camping friends.

The pit fires in the evening were nearly spiritual, as we all stared into the flames, sharing stories and just absorbing the moments, both personally and together. There’s something about the campfire that transcends most other community experiences. The silence, broken at times by the crackle of the fire, is reverent. You just can’t get that in front of a television or computer, no matter what might be airing.

As I got older, I started camping on my own, taking hikes still along the Chesapeake and the Appalachian Trail, communing with nature with close friends as we day-tripped or sojourned for three days or more, immersed in all that was natural, peaceful.

Along the trail or on the shores, I always felt like I understood my place in this world, where I remembered that I was never greater than all that surrounded me. Having this respect, this reverence, was a wonderfully humbling experience that I was able to hold on to when I was back on concrete walks and in man-made buildings.

That’s how I knew–and still know–that my true home, my querencia, is in the woods, along the trail, and on the shores. For it is here that I am most spiritual and cognizant of my place in this world.

Yesterday morning, I went for a short, 8-mile ride, and I felt that spirituality again, that calling to return home. The call is so great in my heart today, and I am scrambling, looking for the time to get back there.

Immersing myself in nature is a constant for me. It’s something that is as natural as breathing, and when I make the effort to shift a few of my priorities and return to the woods, I find that the rest of my life falls into place simply and without effort.

I’ll do everything I can to keep centered in this, to thread the experiences close enough together so that my return home is not a a day-trip reunion but a longer walk, a thru-hike through life, that helps me handle the day-to-day stresses along those concrete walks and in man-made buildings. . . .