I want you to run.
But not over asphalt.
I want you to run over buttersmooth forest trails, dirt padded by evergreen needles, now turning brown, softening your every step.
I want you to cycle.
But not through the city.
I want you to ride over dirt roads, hearing the crunch of gravel beneath your tires, hands shaking to keep the handlebars steady on the uneven terrain, a big wide grin on your face.
I want you to swim.
But not in city swimming pools.
I want you to wade carefully into mountain lakes, step gingerly onto the rocks in gushing streams, the air sucked from your lungs at the first impact of the icy cold water, your skin prickling and hot once you step back out on dry land.
I want you to know the word “petrichor” not by dictionary definition, but by the memories the smell of wet earth after a summer rain triggers in your brain.
As John Muir once wrote:
“The world’s big,
and I want to have a good look at it before it gets dark.”
So go for it.
Live each day as if it is your first. And may the colorful, brilliant mess you leave behind one day shine on.