How could this happen, you ask?
As usual, I was running late. I'd lingered at my computer a few minutes too long as I searched for the perfect word to complete a now forgotten sentence. When I glanced up at the clock, my heart flipped. Even if I made all the lights, I'd never arrive on time. I ran downstairs, threw on my shoes, grabbed my purse and keys, and hopped in the car.
I was marveling at my ability to move so quickly, to make such good use of my time, when I realized I'd forgotten my security blanket, my computer, my confidante, my source of distraction, my dictionary, my music collection. Yes. I'd forgotten my phone.
There is a fantastic playground just outside of the camp doors, and I knew my children would want to stay and play. I tried not to panic. Instead, I began to tell myself that my careless act was good for me. When was the last time I sat for 30 minutes, with nothing special to do? Like an addict, I probably needed a situation like this to force me out of my habit.
As my children hurried off to the slides and the zip line, I surveyed the other parents. Moms, dads, and nannies were reading, talking, texting, and chronicling their lives. Few had braved the playground naked like I had, and I missed the comforting weight of my phone in my palm.
Without it, though, I wandered over to a bench and took a seat. It was early evening and the sun was relaxing, the intensity of her rays diminishing as she prepared her day's exit. I stretched my legs long so I could soak up her gentle warmth. I then closed my eyes and listened to the wind as it rushed through the trees' leaves and carried the children's laughter up and over the nearby meadow. I took in a breath, and the scent of cedar chips and mulch filled me. Soon I began to sway to the rhythm of my children on the swings, and my body exhaled.
I was connected to my surroundings. I was aware. And I was happy. Just to be.