I've got an enormous urge to go and sit on a curb (or as we spell it here in England, a kerb) and squish mud between my bare toes as I used to do after a prairie rain in Saskatchewan. It was so cool and soft, like liquid velvet against my sensitive skin. 

As I immersed myself in this delightful little childhood memory, probably brought about by all the repointing and plaster play in my bedroom of late, my thoughts drifted like a gentle breeze from the curb in front of my house at 745 Williams Street in Regina to my mother's parents' farm near Stockholm, Sask. I was blessed to be able to spend time there every summer while I was growing up and those memories are firmly lodged deep in my heart. I suppose that to a large extent, it's because that was the only place on the planet where I ever felt safe as a child. 

I remember leaping out of the cool, dark hayloft in that old red barn, the terrifying but exhilarating fall before landing in the sweet softness of a haystack below. I remember being out with my uncle and cousins collecting bales from the fields, the tractor pulling a huge flat bed with no sides, while I climbed ever higher to the top of the stack, which grew by the minute. On the bumpy journey through the fields or on the road going back to the farm, it never occurred to me that either the bales or I could fall off. 

One particular summer, my cousins and I spent more time than usual in the ravine across the road, our pockets jammed with tart crabapples, hastily picked on leaving the house each morning. We found four tall, sturdy trees - couldn't tell you what kind; I was a kid and paying no attention to such things. Probably oak, as there were loads of them in the area. 

We took some twine and wove little 'hammocks' for ourselves within the "Y" shaped branch formations in this little group of trees, then filled them with hay, creating nests where we spent hours on end every day. We dug a hole in the soft, damp earth right in the middle of these trees, and used an old piece of wood for a cover so we could store lemonade and a few sandwiches in our little 'cooler'. 

Hour upon hour in that sweltering, slow summer, we would lie in the shade of our nests, talking, reading comics books, or adventure stories. Sometimes we even had naps, a gentle breeze stroking our hair or shoulders as a mother would do until we slept. 

One night, we made a fort of bales in the farm yard, stacked two high, with a roof of plywood, and all of us piled in like sardines with sleeping bags, where we spent a dark and giggling night together. 

Never once did I see the garage with its doors closed, as tools, machinery, bits of vehicles and farm equipment spilled out of them as though they'd tumbled out into the farmyard as easily as the smell of oil that went with them. 

I remember being about five. It was dark one very late summer evening and my uncle was going to pick some fresh corn to add to the dinner being prepared by my aunt. We were only across the garden, not far from the house, but it meant the world to me to be out with my Uncle Don. 

Being the only one who got to go with him, I felt very special as I buried myself between the rows of corn, which was much taller than I thought I would ever be. 

I will never forget the sweet smell of dough rising in my grandmother's old, blue speckled pan, which is now sitting on the hearth of my enormous inglenook fireplace. I wonder how many thousands of cinnamon buns, loaves of fresh bread and other delights came from that dough pan, made ever so lovingly by two of the softest hands and one of the kindest hearts the world has ever known. 

I can still see the robin's-egg-blue painted walls in that rickety old house. I used to lie on the sagging iron bed in my room, noticing how the nails never matched up along the sides of a seam where two pieces of drywall met. That bed, that room, with the beautiful antique dresser, the washstand with pitcher and basin, that was the safest and most perfect retreat on the planet. 

There was a grate on the floor next to the bed, and if I opened the slats, I could see and hear down to the dining room below. I lay in bed as a very little girl, listening to the grown-ups talking over their coffee and cake late at night, the quiet drone of their voices and the delicate clinking of cups meeting saucers lulling me to sleep. 

Our fondest memories can brighten even the darkest day, and can make a good one even better. It doesn't take much to lift ourselves out of our everyday lives and be transported to another time, another place, giving us a sweet retreat and softening the edges of the bumpiest times. 

Take a few moments today... transport yourself to simpler days, happy times. Close your eyes and immerse yourself in the beautiful sights, the heartwarming sounds, the delicious smells that have imprinted themselves so lovingly in the deepest part of your heart. 

Whatever kind of day you're having, this is bound to make it better. 

Spiritual Arts Mentor and Master Teacher, Liberty Forrest, guides you in discovering who you are, why you’re here, and how to follow that path.

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