There's a place where we used to go hiking all the time.
(And by 'all the time" I mean at least once a year.)
It has enchanted moss-covered rocks and tall, fat trees and a good spot on the river for throwing rocks and getting wet feet.
It even has a spooky old cabin right on the river bank.
But we hadn't been there in a long time--two, three, maybe four years.
It's only a fifteen minute drive from home and only two or three miles round-trip, but still we could never find the time.
I've been stuck in the mindset--for about thirteen-and-a-half years--that every venture out of the house is an expedition, for which we need to set aside an entire day, forgetting that we no longer need to pack strollers and backpacks and diapers and changes of clothes and dry shoes and cheddar bunnies and cubes of cheese and o-shaped cereal in little plastic tubs and sippy cups of apple juice diluted with water.
I forget that we can just say, on a Sunday afternoon after all the weekend's chores have been done (at least all that are going to get done) and we've all grown weary of our games and projects and each other, but it's not yet time to start thinking about what to make for dinner, that we can just say, "Let's go for a hike!"
And then we can throw a couple of water bottles in a backpack, put on our coats and our hats and hop in the car and just...go!