I’m sunning myself like a shameless lizard on a warm rock. Our camp is set up. I’ve cracked open the first Punk IPA of our extended weekend. Aerosmith’s Amazing is playing in the background, blending in with the goats. A couple of chickens came by earlier to greet us. My first chicken welcoming committee. They seemed eager to tell us all about their farm. I have no plans this evening beyond the plans I’m executing right now, which is nothing.
And nothing is good. In fact, nothing remarkable has happened today. And yet it feels quietly significant. Perhaps that’s one of camping’s hidden gifts. It lowers the threshold for what counts as enough. A patch of grass. A cold beer. A favourite song. And a couple of inquisitive chickens.