Don't forget to let loose.

You'd think it would be the big things – the milestones – you remember most fondly. Your first car. Graduation. Twenty-first or fortieth birthdays. Or maybe signing the final line on your first mortgage and house.

For me, though, it never is. Sure, I have a vague recollection of those days. What happened. What I wore. That I threw my hat in the air or wrapped my hand around that antique gold front door key. But what I felt in that moment? What thoughts I had? It surprises me to say that they're no longer with me.

What are with me are the simplest, silliest memories. My husband and I in Melbourne Beach, caught in a thunderstorm that pelted curtains of rain as hard as hail. Dancing in it. Laughing in it. Splashing puddles. Not knowing that other beach-goers had taken shelter in their cars, watching us and thinking who knows what. And do you know what? I didn't care.

Saturday night was one of those simple, silly moments too. We ended up over at the neighbor's house, where a plain, homemade swing hangs from the branch of a tall oak. It had been a good afternoon, and the sky was lavender with impending dusk. Everyone was happy and light with doing more living and laughing than worrying.  

I trend toward cautious and am no daredevil (safety first!), but after seeing the smile on others' faces, up to the roof I climbed, pulling the swing and stepping off from the ledge feeling exhilarated and brave and stupid all at once – even though it's been swung from for years and years.

Not to be a buzz killer, but now that I'm back on the ground, I should say that this post does not mean to climb up to a roof or to stick around in a situation you feel is unsafe. What it does mean is: Don't forget to let loose. Don't forget, amongst all of your responsibilities and adultness, to have fun. Don't forget to do. And to be. This is where the good times live.

In my life at least, the best moments are the ones where I was so unaware of time and space that I was all in. All into whatever was before me, around me, near and dear to me. All into what was happening and what I was happening with – so much so that nothing else mattered. Not the stars in the sky. Not the sun or the moon. Not the way I looked. Or what I wore. Or how responsible I should be or how I should act my age. All that was with me was the joy of being. Of existence itself.