Like the rumbling Bow River rapids of Alberta, Canada, that raced past me in late July in mountainous Banff, life’s quiet and meaningful moments keep rushing by.

There isn’t much any of us can do about that, except to maximize the present. That’s difficult when the human memory teases us to revisit past indelible images that we magnify through our sensory connections.

For instance, smoke-tinged skies from forest fires that shrouded Kamloops, British Columbia, when we arrived at our hotel there on July 24, 2026, will forever be sealed in my consciousness.

As will the joyful feeling of reverence for nature, as we rode on the Rocky Mountaineer train the following day, slicing through deep, green canyons on the way to Jasper.

If there is a God–and sometimes I wonder given the state of the world and American society–perhaps he, she or they reside in Canada.

That would explain the seemingly endless supply of pines, spruces and aspens north of the border.

Perhaps God plucked the trees from a celestial palette, drew them on mountains that rise from the bottom of the Thompson River’s edge to the height of a soaring eagle’s eyes.

If so, the clouds passing over the Canadian Rockies applauded in unison.

Of course, there isn’t a never-ending supply of trees, natural resources, or shared beautiful moments.

We must protect our environment, cling to the best of our days, and endure the mundane–and the madness–that exists.

Right now in the Valley of the Sun, Tom and I live in a warm (no, hot!) way station between significant summer events.

We relish our Canada adventure as we also prepare–later this month–to fly to Chicago for the wedding of my younger son, Kirk, and his future bride, Jennifer.

I’ve already advised them to reside in the magical moments of their wedding day as much as possible.

To embrace the cool waters of love from each other, from family, and from friends. To let all of it wash over them.

It will be a day that they–and I–will remember always.