There is a connection I feel with horses that is unlike anything I have ever experienced. They can be frightening because of their size, speed and unpredictability, but they also force you to be calm. I think that was the smartest thing my first riding teacher taught me when I was seven: if you’re calm, they will be calm.

I have never owned a horse, but for a year I got to take care of a pony, Baronet, that I had found abandoned when I was 11. I had moved to England for the second time in my short life. This period was filled with anxiety and instability and there were a lot of unaccompanied moments.

I saw him one day while I was out walking in the woods. He was staring at me from where he stood, wild and dirty. I just went to him and he came to me. I found the farmer who owned him, who said he was a lost cause: “Too difficult,” he said. When I asked if I could care for him, he didn’t hesitate: “Sure, take him.”

He wasn’t trained. He was stubborn and picky and angry. He had been labelled “difficult” just as I was labelled “Sunshine Girl”. It’s not a good thing to be labelled. “Sunshine Girl” made me feel like I couldn’t complain. I didn’t want to make anyone unhappy. I always felt I had to go with the flow.

Baronet saved me that year. He gave my life a sense of purpose and meaning. I would wake up early and walk two miles to the barn to feed him and try to train him, and the moment I came home from school I would run back to the barn to spend time with him.

Looking back, I see Baronet as a wonder. In some magical way I found Baronet when I needed him most and, as sad as I was to leave him at the end of the year, when we moved yet again, I saw the progress we had made together. Seeing that I could make a difference was a huge awakening for me as a child.

Poet William Stafford once said that we are defined more by the detours (绕行路) in life than by the narrow road toward goals. I like this image. But it was quite by accident that I discovered the deep meaning of his words.

Road trips felt risky, so I would drive fast, stopping only when I had to. We would stick to the freeways and arrive tired.

But then Banner, our lamb was born. He was rejected by his mama days before our planned trip to Boise. I had two choices: leave Banner with my husband, or take him with me. My husband made the decision for me.

That is how I found myself on the road with four kids, a baby lamb and nothing but my everlasting optimism to see me through. We took the country roads out of necessity. We had to stop every hour, let Banner shake out his legs and feed him. The kids chased him and one another. They’d get back in the car breathless and energized, smelling fresh from the cold air.

We explored side roads, catching grasshoppers in waist-high grass. Even if we simply looked out of the car windows at baby pigs following their mother, or fish leaping out of the water, it was better than the best ride down the freeway. Here was life. And new horizons.

We eventually arrived at my parents’ doorstep astonishingly fresh and full of stories.

I grew brave with the trip back home and creative with my disciplining technique. On an empty section of road, everyone started quarreling. I stopped the car, ordered all kids out and told them to meet me up ahead. I parked my car half a mile away and read my book in sweet silence.

Some road trips are by necessity fast and straight. But that trip with Banner opened our eyes to a world available to anyone adventurous enough to wander around and made me realize that a detour may uncover the best part of a journey-and the best part of yourself.

Still in shock! I moved around the house purposelessly trying to decide what to put into the suitcases(行李箱). Earlier that evening, I’d received a call telling me that my brother was killed in a car crash. “Come as soon as you can.” cried my mother.

I wanted to hurry to her at once. But my husband, Larry, and I were packing to move from New York to Seattle. Our house was in total mess. Supper dishes sat on the kitchen table. Toys lay everywhere. I purposelessly picked things up and put them down. Mother’s crying went through my head again and again.

Larry called some friends to tell them what had happened. Someone asked to speak to me. “If there’s anything I can do, let me know.” But I didn’t know what to ask for.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang. It was Emerson. He and his wife Donna lived in the block nearby.

“I’ve come to clean your shoes,” he said.

I asked him to repeat.

“Donna had to stay with the baby,” he said, “but we want to help you. I remember when my father died, it took me hours to clean our shoes for the funeral(葬礼). Give me all your shoes.”

I gathered all our dirty shoes to the kitchen. Emerson got to work right away. Watching him devoting himself to one task helped me pull my own thoughts into order. I told myself to wash clothes first. Then, Larry and I bathed the children and put them to bed. One job after another.

When we returned to clear the dishes, Emerson had left. All our shoes stood in a line against the wall, clean, shining. I couldn't help crying. Early next morning, we left for the airport with all the jobs done.

Now whenever I hear of a friend who's lost a loved one, I no longer call with the polite offer, “If there’s anything I can do …” Instead I try to think of one specific task that suits that man's need, like taking the dog to the boarding kennel, or house-sitting during the funeral. If the person asks, “How did you know I needed that one?” I reply, “Because a man once cleaned my shoes.”