The rush of return
Polo is in my blood; I grew up with it. As a kid, summers were spent riding horses and trailing around the countryside.
I don't get to polo very often these days, but when I do I'm always faintly surprised at the way my love of it comes crashing and thumping back into my bloodstream; it's a visceral reaction that reminds me, despite my inattention, my love of this sport has never left.
Polo is a passionate sport: it is fast, physical and volatile. Players, sticks, and horses collide at a gallop. Ponies change direction like lightning, turn on a ten cent piece and are incredibly fit, fast and agile. They are highly trained and a good polo pony loves getting out there as much as their rider. The smells of leather, horse sweat and summer are burned into sensory memory: one whiff yesterday and I understand all over again why the people who make polo their lives have done it.
And for me: I am very clear on how I feel about this game. It is a true-north part of who I am, it makes my blood run quicker. It amplifies who I feel I am. There have been a few things like this in recent years: where returning to them surprised me in how much they also returned me to myself. What do you have that does the same for you?