After the 30th International Human Science Research Conference in Oxford, England, wrapped in late July, I made a brief stop in London before returning to the U.S.

My lecture and workshop at the conference had been steeped in metaphor linked to English gardens and I thought it appropriate to make a brief visit to Kensington Gardens. I plopped my attaché and garment bag in the narrowest of bedrooms at the hotel, one of several that line the streets abutting Kensington Gardens in central London, and went for a stroll.

While plodding along the park’s main path I noticed a young boy—seemingly from the Middle East—kicking a soccer ball while his parents chatted on a park bench and played with a younger child, who may have been the boy's sister. With a gentle watchful eye from Dad, the boy darted across the main path of Kensington Gardens. As I neared and the sun dropped from the sky quickly, the ball popped from the inside shoe of the boy and into some shrubbery buffering the main pond. I—in my suite and bow tie—dashed over and, in my own boyhood manner, pulled the ball out of the shrubs and kicked it back to the boy. The boy and I exchanged a glance and some words before beginning to play soccer in the park across the path. Each pass was fun and I moved a bit easier with each strike. Eventually (and reluctantly), I had to move on—night was now falling. The boy’s father mouthed “thank you”; his smile approved of my exchange and engagement with his son. The man's appreciation felt good.

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