When my young Percheron X Toby and I are riding out in the wide open spaces bordering our little ranch, and things begin to feel slightly out of control, when the powerful horse feels the need to rush forward out of the sheer joy of all that blue sky and four long legs, then we do what the classical riders suggest -- we return to the circle where we work out the kinks and get our brains and bodies back in synch. I sit deep in the saddle, think long long muscles, looking ahead, remembering to breathe, as we progress around the arc with some degree of softness. I remind myself to keep my hands still, to advance my inside seat bone, use that outside leg. And for heaven's sake, not to stiffen up or I'll be bouncing all over the place and his spine will drop. He seems to appreciate the effort and bends around my inside leg, although I can feel him drifting, oh so sneakily, he thinks, the first few times around at least, towards all those open acres of pinon and juniper that are calling his name. Eaaaasy, I say, to the horse and to myself.

How many circles are safe places? A circle of friends and family. A quilting circle where the air is riddled with idle chit chat and soft laughter. In the circle of a lover's embrace. The circle I drew in the sand with the toe of my sneaker during a late summer night game of kick the can when I was in the fifth grade? Where you were safe and no one else could get you? When the choir sang from the hymnal, "Oh the circle, won't be broken ..." The Native American healing circle.

20 meters. We've come full circle, then.

What else?