Last night, I had a recollection.
I was probably eight or nine, and it was a warm summer day where I had nothing to do. No friends around or activities planned. (Of course, this was a time when we had the freedom to roam without parental supervision.)
There was a forest within a ten-minute walk and it was there I found myself. I had no destination, I had no purpose—it was just where my feet had taken me.
Within twenty yards, there was a big boulder on which we used to sit. A small stream lay next to it.
Of course, any self-respecting woodland has its share of fallen trees and moss-covered rocks. My exploration took me from boulder to stream where I found minnows swimming, salamanders darting and plenty of logs and rocks to turn over.
The forest smelled of rotting vegetation, honeysuckle sweetness and freedom. I explored the area without a care in the world, even though this was not my first time there.
I found an arrowhead and shiny quartz stones. I witnessed squirrels and chipmunks racing through the trees and heard the sounds of birds that had no name. I have no idea how long I stayed.
It was a pretty damned good day.
What if you allowed yourself the freedom to explore, without purpose, without expectation, without an expected result? How would that feel?
